Facade
by Lonely Mirror
Summary: By the end of Sherlock's lifetime, it will be known that the Wizarding World was saved by the heroic Harry Potter who single-handedly defeated the Dark Lord; Sherlock would never be in any ending. He was not the main character; he was the wind that blew the chess pieces into position while fighting his own personal battle. I'M SUFFERING THROUGH A (TEMPORARY) WRITER'S BLOCK! HELP!
1. Chapter 1

**Façade**

By _Cold_

**Disclaimer-** This is a Harry Potter and BBC Sherlock crossover. Just in case I get penalized for not mentioning this: Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling and BBC Sherlock is owned by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat!

OOOO

**Chapter One**

"Ah, go boil yer heads, both of yeh," said Hagrid. "Harry – yer a wizard."

"I'm a _what_?" gasped Harry.

OOOO

A shadow rushed down the corridor, occasionally stopping as to not wake the sleeping occupant. It skipped down the steps, careful to jump over the creaking steps. There was an unnatural white light flickering in the darkness, causing the shadow to pause abruptly; it peeked into the kitchen, fully knowing who it would meet.

"What are you doing at this late hour, Sherlock?" asked his brother, grinning at the light he produced with his wand.

The boy replied playfully, "What are _you_ doing at this late hour, Mycroft?"

"Why, I'm practicing spells to bother you for absolutely no reason!" the latter responded slyly. "Go to sleep, we're going school shopping tomorrow. And remember -"

"I know," the younger cut in, gravely. "The façade."

A pained expression crossed his brother's face, so he went over and held his hand for a few seconds; the older squeezed the small hand and said, "It's all an act… to protect us. Never think, even for a moment, that I do not love you; that will be our downfall. It's just the two of us, against the world."

OOOO

Sherlock entered Madam Malkin's shop with Mycroft, shadowing his emotionless expression and long strides towards the counter. A small, pudgy woman in lavender smiled whilst coming over to greet them.

"Hogwarts?" she asked rhetorically, speaking again before his brother could respond. "I've got two other young men being fitted right now! Follow me, dear."

Mycroft quickly reached down and squeezed his hand as an unseen act of compassion, and turned to leave without another glance; Sherlock immediately missed the warmth in his hand, but followed the woman wordlessly.

They walked past racks of robes to the back of the shop, occasionally stopping to pick up any dropped cloth. In the back of the shop, he saw two kids standing on a footstool waiting to get fitted. With a quick take of the kids, he knew exactly how to act around them: how to be neutral. His brother's words echoed in his head.

"It's just us against the world," he had said quietly. "We don't make friends. We don't make enemies. Don't let anyone too close, Sherlock."

One had pointed features with a pale complexion, obviously raised to hold his head high, based on his neatly waxed, silvery-blonde hair and the arrogant air he held around him. He was raised in a family that took great pride in something, probably in their lineage, meaning he was a pure-blood. By the way his facial features tightened, and the way his gray, colorless eyes glared with impatience every moment a witch didn't come for him, it's evident that he's used to being pampered: definitely rich.

The other was a skinny, unimpressive-looking boy. He obviously wasn't as pampered as the latter, for his hair was an unkempt, black, bird's nest; it couldn't have been on purpose because there is a distinct difference between fashion and messy. He had round glasses that were broken many times, based on the way it had been Scotch taped around the rims; his face was as slim as the blonde boy's, but didn't have as much skin to it, implying that he was underfed. There were faded bruises on his face and neck, preferably on other spots of his body as well, signifying the fact that he was abused as well.

His clothes were noticeably too large, indicating that they were hand-me-downs; also, his fingers were covered with calluses, meaning that he was accustomed to labor; however, he wasn't a slave.

Sherlock would have said that he was the hated child, always after the loved one: given nothing by his parents. However, the bags beside the child went against that. There were books placed neatly inside of it and there were no indications of use: they were new. The equipment in another bag was the newest editions, suggesting that it was quite expensive. There was a pouch of money in his pocket to pay for the robe, hat, cloak, gloves, and preferably a wand since he hadn't seen it in the bags.

"So, why would a hated child that was abused by his parents and forced into labor, suddenly have so much money," Sherlock thought to himself while approaching the footstool beside the dark-haired boy. "His glasses are practically broken, and that bundle of Scotch tape is the only thing that keeps it on his face. If he was rich from the start, then he could've just bought new ones."

From that angle, he saw the answer; there was a strange scar on the boy's forehead.

"I see, so he's Harry Potter," Sherlock murmured, amused by his discovery. "His parents are dead, so he's been living with relatives that hated him, a victim to misdirected anger, if you will. It's either that, or his uncontrollable magic made chaos; however, had that been the reason, he would have been discovered by the Ministry of Magic. This implies that he has no knowledge of magic since he hadn't sent any messages to find a rescuer to his abuse. So, he recently discovers his wealth and receives an acceptance letter to Hogwarts; someone that knew him must've told him. Why would a family that supposedly hated Harry insist upon keeping him? Of course, they were probably paid monthly or perhaps yearly for being his caretaker, or else they would've thrown him out years ago. Now, who…"

Three witches came and started to pin needles to fit the black robes onto them. He overheard the conversation between the blonde boy and Harry Potter, and it became obvious that the black-haired boy had no idea that magic even existed until now.

"Hello," said the blonde boy, pompously. "Hogwarts, too?"

"Yes," Harry replied softly, proving Sherlock's deduction of him being abused; he's soft-spoken and beaten into being timid.

The conversation went on, and the blonde boy proved himself to be an arrogant prick that depended on his father's money and power. Practically, the boy wanted a racing broom, which his father would get him, and then smuggle it into the school. His father taught the kid how to play Quidditch already, telling him that it was a crime not to be picked to play. The blonde seemed to be quite well-informed on the houses as well, since he _knows_ that he'll be in Slytherin while making it sound suicidal to be in such a house as Hufflepuff; he was taught to look down on them.

From there, Sherlock found out that Hagrid was the one who took Harry out of his abusive household. Then on, his deductions were only proved to be accurate, so he zoned out until the fitting was done.

OOOO

Sherlock was in line, behind Harry, waiting for the kid to find the correct coins for his purchase. The kid was an idiot, which wasn't really his fault since most people were; Harry was probably taught about Knuts, Sickles, and Galleons when he went to the bank, otherwise Hagrid was an even bigger idiot to bring a kid to a bank and not tell him how to use the currency.

"Remember," Sherlock thought to himself. "Façade."

So, he reached over the thin boy and gently took his pouch out of his hands. Harry whipped his head around and gasped in protest at his actions. Sherlock picked out one Knut, one Sickle, and one Galleon and placed it on his own hand. He put on his soft smile that always tricked people and said slowly in order for the poor kid to comprehend, "The gold coin is a Galleon. They both start with a 'g', that's how I remember it." He inserted a quiet chuckle here to make his lie seem more believable; how could anyone _not _remember? "I'm also quite forgetful. The silver coin is a Sickle; both start with an 's'." This time he pointed at the Knut. "The bronze one is a Knut. The color is quite hazel, so I remember this one by the color. It's quite different from pounds, isn't it?"

Harry nodded slowly, his vibrant green eyes grateful for the help, and his cheeks a bit pink from embarrassment. Sherlock smiled again and slid the coins back into the pouch and gave it to him.

He didn't really mind the wait, since it was also amusing to see a flustered Boy-That-Lived, but Mycroft was likely to be waiting for him outside. Harry paid quickly, thanked him, and rushed out. Sherlock paid immediately, since he deduced the slowness of Harry's payment, he had the coins out immediately. He left as well, striding over to Mycroft, who was sitting on a bench with his legs crossed.

"What took you so long?" he asked curiously.

"Harry Potter was taking so long to pay, so I smacked his head with some genitals I saw rolling around the street and wore my dashing purple robe of sexual intercourse to prove my impatience," Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes. "You were sitting right in front of the shop, how could you not see?"

Mycroft laughed at the remark, and had to cover it up by coughing violently into his sleeve. His face was already pink, and people at the square were beginning to stare. Sherlock had to nudge him lightly, which only cause his cough/laughs to worsen.

To his luck, Harry Potter and his accomplice, Hagrid, happened to see what was happening and hurried over to assist his brother while snacking on some ice-cream.

"Is he okay?" Harry asked worriedly. "Are you okay, sir?"

Sherlock replied softly, looking at his brother with worry, "Oh, he's fine. He must've choked on something."


	2. Chapter 2

**Façade**

By _Cold_

**Disclaimer-** This is a Harry Potter and BBC Sherlock crossover. Just in case I get penalized for not mentioning this: Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling and BBC Sherlock is owned by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat!

**Author's Note- **The first few chapters will be a bit slow (I apologize in advance, as this is my first 'fiction').

**Thanks for the reviews!**

OOOO

**Chapter Two**

Kindness was not something Harry was accustomed with, and when the taller boy had helped him with paying for the robes, he was beyond happy…and perhaps a bit flustered. At the counter, he had completely forgotten Hagrid's short lesson about the currency, so he was fumbling with the coins inside of it. He was nearly humiliated in front of everyone at the shop, including that self-centered brat that dared to insult Hagrid.

Harry hoped that he would get to meet him again, hopefully at Hogwarts.

OOOO

"We're not close," Mycroft whispered on the train.

Sherlock nodded, turning his back towards the latter, "You always say that."

Mycroft laughed humorlessly, "I realize, but Hogwarts is truly a large castle. We're seven years apart, Sherlock. We only have one year to convince everyone that we're not close. Only one year for me to ensure your -"

"Calm down, Mycroft," he cut in, rotating to look up at his brother. "I've done this for a while, I got protocol down. Nothing will go wrong, like it always has; we're neutral."

His brother smiled, patting his head before turning to leave, "You're a good kid."

OOOO

Sherlock was looking for a compartment to sit in; he opened every door he could find, only to see them overflowing with people. Luckily, he opened a door with only two people in it: Harry Potter and a red-head.

"Can I sit here?" he asked, pointing at the seat beside Harry. "If you don't mind, that is."

"Oh yes, please," Harry said, scooting over to give the latter more space.

In a matter-of-factly tone, the red-head said, "Do you even know who you just spoke to?"

Of course he did! How could he _not_, it's by far the most obvious thing… "Well, yes, I suppose," he replied.

"He's _Harry Potter_!" the red-head exclaimed, eagerly.

Sherlock could have sighed and call him a 'stupid fan, pointing out the painfully obvious', but went with a far safer retort, "Ah, of course. I'm Sherlock; it's a pleasure."

Harry seemed to visibly relax at Sherlock's 'I don't know who this guy is' act, and grinned at the red-head's shocked face, "Hi, Sherlock."

The red-head looked at Sherlock as if he was insane, but resumed the light chatter, "Well, I'm Ron."

With that, Sherlock zoned out, listening to the others' voices; practically, it was all about Harry's history. At one point, his guard went up when Ron had asked the boy, "I heard you went to live with Muggles. What are they like?"

Harry had responded, "Horrible."

Sherlock had an urge to stay away from him, as he was a half-blood; that was soon resolved when the black-haired boy corrected himself, "Well, not all of them."

That being said, he zoned out again, listening only barely to how Ron had to deal with brothers that had achieve great things. Ron's shocked squeal was imprinted in his memory when Harry had said Voldemort's name without the useless 'You-Know-Who!' title (might as well add a terrified woman's scream every time someone says Voldemort). There was silence, as everyone was looking at the fields and lanes that sped past. At 12:34, a smiling, dimpled woman slid back their door and said, "Anything off the cart, dears?"

Harry, whose stomach had been rumbling for approximately thirty minutes, hopped to his feet at the thought of food and left with the sound of coins jingling in his pocket; Ron, who was still attempting (and failing) to hide how poor his household was, murmured that he packed sandwiches. And Sherlock never required the sustenance as frequently as a normal person, but he followed Harry just for the heck of it.

OOOO

Harry had wanted to get away from Ron for a while; though the attention was nice, it was getting tiresome at this point. He had also wanted to talk to Sherlock for a bit since he wanted to make friends like a normal person; in fact, he had meant to speak to him at the compartment, but Ron had kept the conversation solely on Harry.

When Sherlock had followed him out to the cart, he thought of it as a chance to get closer to the boy. Harry had expected to find some Mars Bars at the cart, but found Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, Chocolate Frogs, Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, Licorice Wands, and other strange candies that he had never seen in his life.

Not knowing what to get, he turned around to ask Sherlock what he would suggest to him, but saw him talking to someone else he didn't recognize. The boy had slick, black hair and steely dark eyes that watched his new friend strangely.

Harry could only catch snippets of their conversation, but couldn't make it out completely: they were only words. He heard 'you', 'dangerous', 'careful', 'Harry Potter', 'attention', and 'safety'. They spoke in whispers, but the conversation between them went as fast as it came; the older boy suddenly smiled, thanked Sherlock for something, and left. Soon, his friend was beside him again.

"Who was that?" asked Harry when he returned.

"Oh, I'm not sure," Sherlock replied while looking at the cart. "He was just asking for some directions."

"I see," Harry said slowly, and let it drop. "Do you want anything? I'm starving."

"I'm fine," his friend responded. "I only came out to stretch my legs."

Harry turned to the cart and got a bit of everything since he didn't want to miss anything as interesting and new as this. The taller helped him carry some of the snacks and led the way back to the compartment. When they slid open the door, Ron was unwrapping a lumpy package with four sandwiches inside.

OOOO

Ron looked up and stared in surprised when Harry and the other poured a pile of snacks next to him. He sighed and looked at his unimpressive sandwich while muttering, "She always forgets I don't like corned beef."

Harry motioned to the pile of junk food beside him and said, "Swap you for one of those."

"You don't want this, it's all dry," he replied quickly, taking a bite of his sandwich. "She hasn't got much time, you know, with five of us."

Harry waved the thought aside, "Go on; help yourself."

Ron felt a burst of gratefulness as he put aside his sandwich (which was soon forgotten), and ate through the latter's candies and pastries. He glanced at Sherlock and noticed that he wasn't eating anything.

"Why aren't you eating anything, mate?" he asked with a mouthful of chocolate frogs. "You feeling alright?"

He saw Sherlock shake his head, "No need to mind me; thank you, though."

Ron shrugged it off and continued to eat, deciding to strike up a conversation with his idol.

OOOO

_At the corridor, he saw Mycroft motioning him over, so he strode past groups of kids while Harry was busy looking at the strange candies at the cart._

_ "Hello," he said, acting as if he didn't know him._

_ Mycroft's eyes strayed to the messy-haired kid, "So, that's Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived."_

_ Sherlock nodded in response, peering back at his oblivious acquaintance, "Harry Potter."_

_ "I hope you understand how dangerous it is near that child. Be careful, Harry Potter's famous; we don't want unneeded attention on us, for safety purposes…"_

_ The younger felt a stare boring into the back of his head, and Mycroft's eyes flicked behind him, "I got it, and I'm only sitting in the same compartment as him with some red-head."_

_ His brother gave him a look and suddenly broke into a smile, "Thanks for the directions."_

_ With that, they both turned and left: his brother to some group to blend in, and himself beside Harry._

Sherlock's thoughts were interrupted when a tearful boy with a pudgy face and chestnut-brown hair came bustling in, "Sorry, but have you seen a toad at all?"

Harry and Ron shook their head, resulting in the poor kid wailing, "I've lost him! He keeps getting away from me!"

The toadless boy rushed out, but came back nearly as soon as he left, but with a girl this time, "Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost one."

The girl's voice was bossy, and she was already wearing her new Hogwarts robe; she had bushy brown hair, and when she spoke, Sherlock could see her rather large front teeth.

The rest of the train ride was quite bland; it was like an introductory for their 'group'. The toadless boy was Neville; the bossy squirrel girl was Hermione Granger; the spoiled brat he had seen inside of the robe shop was Draco Malfoy (his 'I-look-down-on-you' tone made him want to punch the prick in the groin, whether it's directed at him or not). Harry had already made him an enemy before stepping into the school.

It was quite simple to see that Toadboy was a timid boy that was quite forgetful; he easily loses things, from the way he said "keeps getting away from me" at his vanished toad. Squirrel was the bossy-type and really looked forward to learning in Hogwarts (she's the 'first to go to a magical school in her family', make sure to insert a squirrel squeal right here). Prick was just some rich, spoiled brat that kept two bullies around him for fun (he also likes to look down on people, what little sh…).

They wore their robes (thanks to Hermione's nosy chastises) and exited the train. Sherlock found Neville's toad, or Trevor, lying around the damp grass ("Trevor!" Neville had cried in joy. Sherlock pitied the frog and its failed attempt of escape). All of the first years were led by Hagrid, the rather large man he and Mycroft had seen in front of Madame Malkin's shop.

As if ushering lost sheep, Hagrid led the first years through a foggy lake towards the castle; Harry, Ron, Hermione, and himself took one boat and followed the fleet. Slowly, they approached the castle and clambering out of the boats; the large group followed the giant to the front door of the castle. Raising one of his giant fists, Hagrid knocked loudly three times.

The great door swung open at once.


	3. Chapter 3

**Façade**

By _Cold_

**Disclaimer-** This is a Harry Potter and BBC Sherlock crossover. Just in case I get penalized for not mentioning this: Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling and BBC Sherlock is owned by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat!

**Author's Note-** Hopefully, this will be more interesting than the last chapter! Thanks for reading!

**Feel free to review! It helps me a lot (and special thanks to Nan Helgeke)**

OOOO

**Chapter Three**

Standing behind the great oak door was a tall witch in a jade-green robe; she had a stern look on her face, and her black hair was pulled back into a tight bun. Hagrid cleared his voice gruffly while gesturing towards the stern woman.

"The firs' years, Professor McGonagall," he said.

The professor nodded, her lips drawn into a tight line, "Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here."

She pulled the door wide, watching the students file in with hard eyes; the sound of 'oohs' and 'ahs' filled the air. The entrance hall was magnificent: its large, stone walls were lit with flaming torches, the ceiling was so high that it was hard to make out any details, and there was a superb marble staircase that faced the crowd which led to the upper floors.

The other years' voices could be heard from a doorway to the right, but Professor McGonagall led them across the flagged stone floor into a small, vacant chamber off the hall. The first years packed into the room, squishing each other to get in and see what's next. The shuffling of feet was silenced by the echo of the firm witch's voice.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," she began, scanning the crowd with her eyes. "Before the start-of-term banquet begins, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important, since your house will be, somewhat, like your family; you will have classes with your house, spend free time in your house common room, and sleep in your house dormitory."

There was some giggling in the room, which was quickly hushed when the professor abruptly stopped talking to glare at the kids responsible. She cleared her throat to begin again, "There are four houses: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own, noble history and has produced exceptional witches and wizards. At Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule-breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, whichever house has the most points will be rewarded with the house cup.

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you tidy yourselves up." She looked at the Ron's nose that was smudged with ink (for whatever reason) and Harry's untamed hair; her eyes stopped at Sherlock's face for a few seconds before flitting back to the rest. "I shall return to you when we are ready."

OOOO

"So," Harry said, facing Sherlock. "Do you know how they sort us?"

Ron stepped in between them, "Oh, I know."

He had an urge to push him out of the way and say, 'Why are you so _clingy_?' but instead, he said slowly as to not burst out, "How?"

"I think it's some kind of test. Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he's lying," the red-head said matter-of-factly.

Nobody was talking much, except for Hermione Granger. She was chattering away to some poor soul, speaking quickly without a breath about all of the spells she had learned from the books. There was a nervous tension in the room, and Harry's hands were already clammy.

"Oh, no," he muttered to himself, wiping his hands against his robe.

"Don't worry about it," Sherlock's voice said behind Ron's red head. "It's not a test."

As if on cue, Professor McGonagall strode into the chamber, followed by ghosts that glowed pearl-white. There were gasps, and Harry was flabbergasted by the sight of it. The witch turned around and signaled their leave with a quick flick of the wrist, and as fast as they came, the ghosts left through the walls.

"Now, form a line," the emerald witch said, "and follow me."

OOOO

The stern witch led the first years out of the chamber through a large hallway to the Great Hall.

Though Sherlock was informed by Mycroft how the Sorting would proceed, the sight bewildered him: it was absolutely magnificent. There were thousands of candles floating around four, long tables filled with the other years; there were golden plates and crystal goblets placed atop the tables. Another table, aside from the students' tables, had teachers.

In the middle of the grand hall was a dusty, brown hat that sat upon a four-legged stool. At first, there was silence: everyone was staring at the hat expectantly. Then, there a crease formed, acting as a mouth, and it began to sing in a deep, projecting voice:

"_Oh, you may not think I'm pretty_

_But don't judge on what you see,_

_I'll eat myself if you can find_

_A smarter hat than me._

_You can keep your bowlers black,_

_Your top hats sleek and tall,_

_For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat_

_And I can cap them all._

_There's nothing hidden in your head_

_The Sorting Hat can't see,_

_So try me on and I will tell you_

_Where you ought to be._

_You might belong in Gryffindor,_

_Where dwell the brave at heart,_

_Their daring, nerve, and chivalry_

_Set Gryffindors apart;_

_You might belong in Hufflepuff,_

_Where they are just and loyal,_

_Those patient Hufflepuffs are true_

_And unafraid of toil;_

_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_

_If you've a ready mind,_

_Where those of wit and learning,_

_Will always find their kind;_

_Or perhaps in Slytherin_

_You'll make your real friends,_

_Those cunning folk use any means_

_To achieve their ends._

_So put me on! Don't be afraid!_

_And don't get in a flap!_

_You're in safe hands (though I have none)_

_For I'm a Thinking Cap!"_

A loud applause erupted throughout the crowd as the hat finished its song. Immediately, Professor McGonagall began calling out names to be sorted; those called went up to the stool and put on the hat. After several seconds, the hat would shout the house name, and the student would go to the table of their house. There was clapping, whistling, and occasional cat-calling (by some red-head twins).

"Abbott, Hannah!" the professor said, reading off of a list.

"HUFFLEPUFF!" the Sorting Hat would holler.

The list went on:

"Bones, Susan!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Boot, Terry!"

"RAVENCLAW!"

"Brocklehurst, Mandy!"

"RAVENCLAW!"

So on and so forth; Sherlock didn't particularly care.

"Holmes, Sherlock!" Professor McGonagall said.

He strode forward and put the hat on; the silence was nothing particularly worrisome, but the Hat was taking quite a while.

"You'll need to open these doors of yours," whispered a small but manly voice in his ears. "This 'palace' of yours is quite intriguing, and I would really like to look inside."

'Oh, you mean my mind palace?' Sherlock thought to himself. 'Why should I open it to you?'

"Don't worry," the Sorting Hat responded. "I'm under a strict contract; I'm not allowed to tell anyone anything from anyone's mind."

'That isn't what I'm worried about,' he replied to the Hat, shaking his head slightly. 'Are you sure you can take it?'

"Take what?" curiosity crept into the hat's voice.

'I'm not called a genius for nothing,' he thought. 'Don't wander for too long, you might get lost.'

Sherlock closed his eyes to focus and open the doors to his mind palace (but you could call it a castle) for the Hat; he felt it wandering in his (extensive, mind you) knowledge. He took great pride when the hat was droning in surprise; however, it wasn't long until the Hat was lost in his mind: it was getting dangerously close to the door that was closed for its traumatizing event.

'Get away from there!' Sherlock thought sternly. 'Get out!'

The Hat was far too gone: it opened the door.

Suddenly, the young boy could hear the screams of his parents and it popped his eardrums; fire engulfed the memory of his first house. The flowers that his mother had planted were burnt to a crisp, and the yells of his father to get out of the house echoed throughout his mind. His lovely parents were crying in pain, but soon their voices were drowned out by the cracking of wood; the dandelion-yellow house collapsed and the yell of his brother… images of the event flew by: the wicked, short man that went by the name of Moriarty laughing in glee…his parents that were scorched alive, now just black bones…

'GET OUT!' he screamed to the Hat. 'OUT! OUT!'

Sherlock violently shut the door to his memories and…

"SHERLOCK!" someone was violently shaking his shoulders, and a wizard with a long white beard and small spectacles had taken the hat off of his head. The old wizard looked at the Sorting Hat gravely.

Sherlock was unable to blink for whatever reason, and tears that he had been unable to shed at his parents' funeral ("Pity directed to the weak," Mycroft told him.) were dripping down his cheeks slowly. His face was in his shaking hands; looking up, he saw Professor McGonagall bending down with a worried gaze on her usually hard features.

"Burn it," he whispered to her with an oddly emotionless face, still streaming with tears. "Burn it. It saw…"

The professor could hear the underlying words of "I can't trust anyone" from the young boy's steady voice. There was a heavy silence along with stares directed at him.

OOOO

At first, it was all normal. Only when a few minutes passed, could Professor McGonagall feel something wrong with the boy. There were curious murmurs spreading throughout the hall and she saw the boy's brother, Mycroft, narrow his eyes in worry when she flit her eyes towards his direction.

She glided over to Albus Dumbledore, who also seemed to be masking confusion at the strangely long sorting.

"We need to take off the Hat," she hissed. "This is not of the norm…"

"Just wait for a few more moments," the wizard said, not taking his eyes off of the young boy.

Suddenly, the boy wrenched forward, as if he had been punched in the stomach, and fell to the floor. There were anxious gasps, and the hushed whispers had progressed into shouts of worry.

"What's happening?!" yelled a voice. "He's hurt!"

She had to lift the (surprisingly light) boy back up onto the chair and started to shake his shoulders.

"Burn it," she heard him whisper to her. "Burn it…"

Her heart went cold at the comment, but all she did was squeeze the boy's shoulders in a reassuring manner. Albus had picked up the Hat and was looking coldly at it, despite his usually warm attitude.

"I'll have to take away this memory from the Sorting Hat," she heard him murmur. "Wash it away, yes."

When Dumbledore caught sight of her, she nodded curtly, agreeing to his quick decision. It was either that or burn their tradition…

The students were silent, but it was livened up once again when Harry was called to Gryffindor; his cheer was definitely the loudest and warmest, even after Sherlock's fit.

Soon, the curly-haired boy was forgotten as Dumbledore began his usual opening.

OOOO

"Welcome!" Dumbledore's voice echoed throughout the hall. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! We sure started it off with a blast!"

Sherlock and Professor McGonagall had left the hall without a trace. They could hear Dumbledore's strange remarks and the smell from the feast wafted into their noses as they went farther away from the festivities; alas, Sherlock stopped at only eighty-one paces away from the Great Hall.

"It's quite alright, now," he said to her. "I've locked the door this time."

The professor, with a bit of hesitation, understood the gist of what the young boy was saying and nodded wordlessly. She watched him wearily as he wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his robe.

"Ravenclaw," the boy said abruptly, blinking a couple times to make sure his eyes were normal again.

"Excuse me?" she asked.

"Ravenclaw," he repeated. "Is it alright if I'm in that house? I'm sure I have the mind for it."

"That's fine," she said curtly, straightening out her robes in order to give herself some time to speak. "I apologize in regards of the Sorting Hat."

The young boy waved it away, as if nothing had just happened, "I will be taking my leave now. You should be as well; your feast is waiting as well."

With that, Sherlock turned around swiftly and went back into the Great Hall. She could only compose herself before following the child's example. The witch had never seen problems arise at the Sorting Hat, and there was no protocol created by Albus regarding it. There was a tug of guilt in her heart as she strode over to the teachers' table and sat to eat; the thought of, 'I failed to help a student' had kept her mood low at the moment. There were curious glances every now and then, but eventually, the happy atmosphere got to her as well, making the event a forgotten event in history in mere minutes.

Sherlock didn't eat anything (as usual), which earned him a few strange glances from the Ravenclaw table, but was forgotten soon after. The old wizard, which he later learned was Albus Dumbledore, gave a short speech about not going to the Forbidden Forest (hence the name) and whatnot. He ignored Mycroft's worried gaze from the Hufflepuff (which sounds quite unlike him, but he had convinced the Hat to sort him there in order to lay low) table and said his good nights briefly to his previous 'group', disappearing from them before they could ask any questions.

OOOO

Sherlock wasn't as sleepy, and since he didn't require the sleep that average people needed in order to function, he stayed awake the whole night inside of the Ravenclaw common room, reading all of the books for tomorrow's classes. The password for the Ravenclaw common room was an extremely simple riddle that changed every day, guarded by an eagle knocker; he didn't know what would happen if he got it wrong, but the riddles were so ridiculously easy that it would be impossible for him to get it wrong.

There was a light breeze whistling around the Ravenclaw tower, which was very relaxing to him while he was reading. He certainly wouldn't forget what happened today, but it wasn't something that needed any particular attention: all he needed to do was guard himself better, without making the same foolish mistakes as today.


	4. Chapter 4

**Façade**

By _Cold_

**Disclaimer-** This is a Harry Potter and BBC Sherlock crossover. Just in case I get penalized for not mentioning this: Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling and BBC Sherlock is owned by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat!

**Author's Note-** Sorry for the late update; now that school's starting, I'll probably update during the weekends! Hopefully, this will be more interesting than the last chapter! Thanks for reading! (Special thanks to: RRW, MisunderstoodSociopath, and Valiant Lies!)

P.S. It was my birthday this Friday (FRIDAY THE 13th), so I tried to get it in by then, but it's already 1 in the morning…it's now Saturday the 14th. *Plans ruined*

**Feel free to review! It helps me a lot!**

OOOO

**Chapter Four**

When light was starting to shine through the windows, the beauty of the room caught his attention. He saw the plush blue curtains that embraced the walls and was especially delighted when he saw an arch that led to a library; he had finished all of the books that Mycroft had bought for his classes ("Only for class! No going ahead!" he had said. But honestly, who listens to him anyway?). Sherlock understood why his brother went through the burdens of buying new things for him when he could've just given him hand-me-downs.

"No connection," the older had told him. "Not even hand-me-down connections."

"We're practically strangers, then," he shrugged. "If your Slytherin bed has a message written in your undergarments that goes along the lines of 'I understand protocol, don't worry', it's not me. But of course you wouldn't know, because we're strangers."

There was nothing particularly interesting after that; he made sure to steer clear of Harry and his little posse (though they're probably too 'busy' to realize). The-Boy-Who-Lived made immediate enemies with Severus Snape, the Potions Professor who had a hawk nose, gelled-back obsidian-black hair, and an obvious hatred towards the famous Harry Potter. If Sherlock had to say anything, it wasn't that the professor favored his house (well, maybe a little, but still), it was just that he detested the Gryffindor house; it was pretty obvious from the first day that he picked on Gryffindor students (especially Harry, Ron, Hermione, and occasionally Neville Longbottom).

Argus Filch hates all the students because of a childish grudge (the squib is old, no doubt, but he acts like a child), so it's no surprise he had a need to hate the 'Great Harry Potter' with a special passion.

How he found out?

It was quite easy, really. All he had to do was follow the old, unknowing man around like a shadow and listen to him talk to his cat (Filch calls it Mrs. Norris; he must've been a lonely fellow) like a creep. There were several close calls of him getting caught because of the cat, but Filch was too busy being a weirdo. By then, the answers unfolded and the short fun he had as a 'shadow' dissipated with it.

All in all, Sherlock's several months at Hogwarts was comfortable, but not by standard causes. He was being alienated by his classmates, but being alone never fazed him; there were the usual whispers behind his back but nothing more. Draco Malfoy would have targeted him for bullying, but he was always too preoccupied with Harry Potter. Sure, sometimes there were bullies that attempted to humiliate him in class, but he pretended as though the fit never happened.

"I heard you had a fit during the Sorting," a rather large boy taunted. "You cried like a baby."

Sherlock feigned deaf, packing up his books at the same pace; students' eyes were trained on his back.

"Hey!" the boy bellowed, slamming his hand on the desk. "I'm talking to you!"

He looked up, unfazed and unimpressed, but resumed his act, "Um…I didn't have a fit at the Sorting."

"What?" the latter replied, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Yes you did, everyone saw you!"

Sherlock did a half-assed shrug and resumed putting in a scroll that fell out of his bag.

The bully left awkwardly and spread the word; soon, it was the new 'truth' that he didn't have a fit. The stories went as far as him being impersonated by someone who drank a Polyjuice Potion, and the Sorting Hat finding out and attacking the impersonator's mind for lying. Nonetheless, any word of his existence was soon drowned by stories of Harry's daily life as a Gryffindor.

Sherlock every day schedule consisted of missing History of Magic with Professor Binns (Who wants to listen to an old ghost drone on about something in such a dull fashion? Not to mention, he had already read it). Other than that, his schedule was regular, and mundane, mind you: he had Herbology with either Hufflepuff or Gryffindor, Charms with either Gryffindor or Slytherin, Transfiguration with either Slytherin or Hufflepuff, Defense Against the Dark Arts with either Gryffindor or Slytherin, and Astronomy (which he knows nothing about: who needs to know about planets anyway?) with either Hufflepuff or Gryffindor.

Anyway, other than the nice schedule, he also stayed invisible by keeping low, avoiding people that get picked on: following the crowd. Sure, every now and then, he made small talk with another Ravenclaw (sometimes with a blonde girl named Luna Lovegood because he found it amusing to translate her words into English). But that's beside the point; practically, he was the wind.

He didn't help people being bullied; he watched on the sidelines, waiting for the One (with a hero-complex) to come to the 'rescue' (which was pretty much directing the bullying onto himself and his followers). He didn't raise his hand in class and only spoke when spoken to, but made sure to strike up a conversation every now and then with a Hufflepuff, named John Watson, (who's reactions were amusing when he 'unknowingly' said something inappropriate) so that he didn't seem like a loner.

It was lonely, but that wasn't bad: Alone is what he had; Alone is what protected him.

He had said that to him once, in a joking manner, to John.

"You're wrong; friends protect each other."

"I'm only kidding, John. Don't mind it," he had replied, packing up to leave. "Besides, I have you. How could I be alone?"

"True. Want to eat lunch together?"

Sherlock was already gone by then.

OOOO

Harry realized how Sherlock was avoiding him, though he played as if he didn't realize. Sure, Snape's still an arse, and Malfoy's still as annoying as ever, but he still had enough time to think about everything so far. These couple of months, Ron and Hermione became his all-around-buddies; the curly-haired student seemed to have disappeared from his view.

Sure, every now and then Harry would catch a glimpse of him at dinner, but every time he looked back to have a closer look, he was gone.

"Hey," Harry brought up once. "Why doesn't Sherlock eat anything at dinner?"

Ron was too busy stuffing his face to respond as a human, but he could do it as an animal, "Sherlock? I fon't know. Why fon't ya ask 'im?"

Hermione was (far) more civilized, "Oh, Sherlock Holmes? He never eats. I asked him once during lunch when you were out with Ron _doing something unspeakable like breaking the rules_; and, apparently, he's never hungry. He probably eats a large breakfast."

Harry was surprised, "You mean you see him?"

She answered, "Well, of course. He's not invisible."

It was a Friday the next day, and Harry kept his eyes peeled for Sherlock. He didn't even mind Snape's arse-ness that day; nonetheless, he never saw him. Every now and then, he thought he saw a familiar black and curly head, but it was gone the moment he looked closer into the sea of students.

Months passed slowly, but events still crashed into him, including the sudden fact that Harry would be a Quidditch player (thanks to McGonagall), a recent midnight duel that Malfoy had proposed (and ditched to get him and Ron in trouble), and the discovery of a monstrous dog the day of the duel (guarding something important…he would find out sooner or later).

OOOO

It was Halloween; the smell of pumpkin-baked goods roamed the halls. Of course, the feast was to wait until dinner, but the elves were already preparing everything by noon. It was an easygoing day, with the holiday and jittery ghosts floating around everywhere; the castle was decorated with black and orange streamers. There were balloons that hung outside all of the classrooms (including Professor Snape's, who only had black balloons for whatever reason), and each instructor did something special.

As usual, what could possibly go right with Harry Potter's Halloween? It could be filled with candy and junk food, and maybe a good prank from the Weasley twins every now and then. That's wishful thinking (come on, let's be honest), though. Trolls and trouble don't start with the same letter for no reason, after all.

OOOO

Sherlock was roaming around, his feet tapping the stone floor lightly as he wandered. He had heard the professors speak of a troll, which was practically an invitation for him to come and have his fun. Naturally, he wouldn't get caught, nor would he get hurt. Trolls aren't considered stupid for nothing, after all.

He heard sobs around the corner, in the girl's restroom, whose door was slightly ajar; against his better judgment, he stuck his head around the corner to see the bushy-haired girl he saw in the train. She was sitting like a ball in the corner, beside the rows of sinks. Just as he was about to leave her, an amazingly rotten stench reached his nose, making him momentarily gag. The troll was near.

There was a soft rumble every few seconds, coming towards them. Sherlock was planning on walking away, but his consciousness tugged at his heart.

'Murderer,' the voice said quietly. 'Just like Moriarty.'

With a short sigh, he developed a quick plan. He would sweet-talk the crying girl into getting out of the bathroom safely (and without panicking), then play around for a bit since the teachers were too busy locking the students inside of their house tower.

"Hermione Granger," he spoke softly, approaching her as naturally as he could (which was pretty impressive. "Are you alright?"

There was a sniffle, and then a response as the girl looked up, "Sherlock."

"What are you doing here, huddled into a corner like that," he said, sticking out his hand for hers. "This doesn't suit you."

The girl wiped her eyes, and buried her head inside of her knees, "Leave me alone; I just need to be alone. Nobody likes me."

Oh, well he was going to regret this; it's this, or nothing. "I like you. I admire your intelligence and openness to learn in this school. You're nothing like the others."

He could see her lightening up, but wanted to leave when she opened her mouth to retort, "You're not even in any Gryffindor classes; I did some research by asking the teachers. You attend all classes, except for History of Magic, but you don't appear in any classes that clash with the Gryffindors."

How stubborn. Well, it was a good challenge, "I have my personal reasons, but that has nothing to do with anyone, but me. Hermione, I don't know you well. But that doesn't mean I can just leave you, crying, alone; I'm not heartless." That's a lie, but whatever.

Sherlock extended his arm again, and gave her his 'I'm-worried-about-you' look. The latter grasped at it, and he got a good look at her puffy eyes. Despite all the rumors of her not caring about what people thought, she obviously cried because of it. Only someone close enough to her…

"You've been hurt by Harry Potter and Ron Weasley," he stated, staring into her eyes. "They have offended you; even though you thought of them as friends, you think that they do not."

OOOO

Hermione avoided his unwavering eyes and looked at the stone floor, "I should have expected it; it always ends like this anyway."

"Who said that it's over?" he asked, becoming aware of the terrible stench that worsened; the rhythmic thumps of footsteps became louder. Sherlock could feel his heart beating recognizably quicker, which amused him.

"But -"

"Hear me out, Hermione," he said, as he also heard two other, quick footsteps approaching them; definitely Harry's and his red-headed friend. "They'll come, and you'll realize that they still care. Your acquaintances will become your friends, and your bond will strengthen overtime. Don't doubt me on this."

As if on cue, two boys came bursting in, gasping; they looked at the scene of him and the girl holding hands in bewilderment. The pair jogged over for a closer look.

"Is this what I think it is?" Ron murmured, shaking his head. "Have you been having at it inside of the restroom while there is a troll on the loose?"

"Excuse me?!" Hermione replied, letting go of his hand to wipe away her excess tears. "Absolutely not! And a troll? Harry?"

"Yeah, troll," Harry said, nodding quickly. "Let's g -"

A disgruntled snarl sounded from the door, and everyone whipped their attention to the twelve foot troll. It had discolored, granite-gray skin with scars scattered around its body and dirt caked its hands and feet; it was carrying a large, spiked club that was slung over its shoulder. The troll's bulky, demented body, short and stubby legs as thick as two of Hogwart's desks, thick neck, and small bald head made it look like a coconut on top of a boulder.

There went Sherlock's plan of fun; with quick modifications, he planned out his new plan of survival. It was definitely more fun than his original, so he didn't mind the turn of events.

There was an uncomfortable silence, as both parties stood absolutely still: one out of fear, and the other in plans of either attack or attack. It chose attack in a few seconds of time.

It roared loudly, swinging its club quickly to destroy the bathroom. Hermione's scream echoed throughout the room, and the boys' feet were glued to the floor. Sherlock just managed to snap out of his freeze and ushered them into one stall.

"Keep this door closed," he said, words spilling out of his mouth. "I can distract it, but only for a moment. Run when I holler."

Harry nodded, being the second to recover; Hermione's lips were quivering, but her eyes were hard, "Alright."

Sherlock dashed out of the stall and waved his hands around like a crazy person (which he was, but for simile purposes), turning on all of the sinks and running around to make it go berserk. Too much movement made it go wild, thinking everything was an enemy; the troll's eyes flickered from sink to sink madly as it flailed its pointed club at everything.

Sherlock hollered, "Let's go! We'll lock it in."

OOOO

Harry and the others rushed out, dashing for the door; Ron stumbled on pieces of the sink that the creature had broken off. They were already at the door, but the red-head's foot was caught; he cried in fear. Sherlock saw the look of terror, and remembered his parents.

'If I could redeem myself,' he thought quickly. 'If I could save someone instead of pathetically looking at the dead…'

Immediately, he dashed back into the girl's restroom due to the spur of the moment.

He kicked the sink away and ushered Ron towards the door. The Weasley turned around to pull him out, but the door was slammed in his face. He managed to see Sherlock's shocked face as it shut. With a bewildered look of shock, he looked at Harry and Hermione beside him and went to open in it with shaking hands. Instead, he fell to his knees, his body sweating due to the adrenaline rush.

Suddenly, there was a crack and one of the club's spikes stabbed out of the door, merely inches from Ron's fallen figure. Harry and Hermione stumbled back in shock and fell backwards by tripping on their robes, speechless.

Hermione was whispering quickly to herself, trying to reassure herself; she was crying instead. The fear was everywhere: it clouded everything. She was hyperventilating, tears flowing down her cheeks as she stared at the door with an open mouth.

Harry's heart was thundering against his ribcage, his throat suddenly seemed to have cotton shoved into them. He couldn't speak; he could only stare at the reality of what happened. His body refused to move, and his mind went completely blank; his cheeks were wet, and he couldn't blink

Ron's body was shaking, and his ankle throbbed from getting stuck in the broken sink. A silent cry escaped his throat as he saw the spike dripping with blood. "It's my fault. It's my fault. I killed him. He's dead. If I didn't…If I was faster…"

The club was withdrawn, and there was a large hole in the door. Nobody went to look in; nobody wanted to see a dead Sherlock. Hermione's scream echoed throughout the castle as the others heard in horror as the sound of repeated beatings and disturbing cracking of bones resounded throughout the bathroom. Then, the noises stopped.

OOOO

Professor McGonagall, closely followed by Professor Snape and Professor Quirrell, rushed to the terrified scream to see the three Gryffindors staring at a pool of blood on the floor.

She strode over swiftly, "What are you _doing _here?!"

The responses shocked her, for there were no excuses for not being with their house. There was an evident fear; none of them had any mind in hiding it.

"He's dead. He's dead, Professor. You have to…You can't… Professor Snape, you have to save him. He can't…"

"There were bones cracking. And the blood, oh, Professor McGonagall, the blood was dripping off the spike. There was so much blood…"

"It's my fault. Am I going to Azkaban? I should've gotten the door sooner, Professor. He's dead, now. What am I going to do? I killed him…I killed a boy who tried to save me."

The students were crying, talking quickly with wavering voices with the same eerily similar words, "He's dead…there was so much blood…and the cracking bones, repeatedly being crushed by the club…"

Professor McGonagall took long strides towards the pool of blood and became paler by the minute. There was a hole in the door, implying that there was a club with spikes that punctured it; she looked through it and gasped.

Blood painted the walls, it was splattered everywhere: on the walls, the floors, the ceilings, the broken mirrors, the shattered sinks, the smashed stalls, and huge footprints of blood that led to…

"The troll took him," she breathed under her breath. "There's a hole in the wall, big enough for a troll to fit through, Albus…"

She cleared her voice to stop it from wavering and asked softly, "Did you," she cleared her voice, which betrayed her, and started again. "Did you see the contents of this room? Did you open this door?"

A heavy silence enveloped the group, as Professor Quirrell kneeled to the floor, clutching his heart, while Professor Snape, who saw the bathroom right after she turned away, strode a couple yards from the door that led to bloodshed and coughed into a tightly clenched fist.

"Yes," the children whispered, looking at each other in agreement.

"But there was not a living soul in there, Professor. Nothing but the blood," Hermione said, her eyes reliving the scene over and over again.HaHhhh


	5. Chapter 5

**Façade**

By _Cold_

**Disclaimer-** This is a Harry Potter and BBC Sherlock crossover. Just in case I get penalized for not mentioning this: Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling and BBC Sherlock is owned by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat!

**Author's Note-** Probable updates during the weekend! The reviews have made my mind and hands work overtime, creating this; all in all, thank you for your thoughts and most of all... Thanks for reading!

**Feel free to review! It helps me a lot!**

OOOO

**Chapter Five**

With a faint pop, a young boy and a troll arrived in the depths of the Forbidden Forest. Naturally, he didn't get splinched because he'd Apparated many times before. Who needs tickling spells anyway?

It was hard and tedious for Sherlock to have to get it to smash a hole in the wall because he got nicked by a spike while getting Ron to safety. Through much time and effort of running around in circles and practically yelling, the wall was smashed. He then proceeded with killing it and dragging it out of the castle in order to Apparate; the castle was warded to prevent it.

Between the living child and the dead twelve foot troll, injuries were shared. The boy was suffering due to the amount of blood he'd lost from the nick on his left arm and the gash on his back. The troll, on the other hand, was a completely other story.

He had killed it by accident, to be honest; it had fainted when he casted _Wingardium Leviosa_ and hit it with its own club after it smashed a large enough hole in the wall to the outside. The boy had wanted to find the bruising rate of a live mountain troll, so he cast the spell again, repeatedly hitting the fainted creature; alas, it died by the second hit.

If it didn't have the wooden spikes, it definitely would've survived and the boy would have figured out its bruising rate. Nonetheless, the gore didn't really bother him since it was an experiment: nothing more. The boy had planned on going out to meet again with Harry and the others, but he heard three footsteps rushing to Hermione's scream.

Had they found him in the middle of a bloody room with a dead troll, he would have been subjected to questioning: a waste of time, to be curt. Instead, he Apparated to the Forbidden Forest with the troll; he would leave the body there, though someone was certain to find it. People would be suspicious, but it would die down soon because the single-minded question of, 'How could a first year kill a troll?" would cloud their judgment. There could also be a chance of other creatures eating it before anyone got to see it, which would help him considerably; however, either way, it wouldn't hurt him.

As of now, he had to decide whether to go back now, or a couple days later. If he waited too long to come back, he would also be questioned, but if he went back now, suspicion levels would spike. His capabilities could be revealed, and all of Mycroft's work would go to waste.

It would be best to go back now and act completely oblivious to any sort of tension. Like all else, today's day will be forgotten. Another faint pop sounded the otherwise quiet forest, and the boy was gone; a discolored, gory body was the only clue that proved the child's coming and going.

OOOO

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were inside of the infirmary, sitting on the most comfortable couch; they huddled together, a soft blanket draped over them. It was warm, and the children were nodding off, leaning against each other. The adrenaline rush had gone by then, leaving them extremely tired.

They were disturbed by the sound of the infirmary door opening, which they had ignored, if not for the bloody figure that stumbled in and broke the silence.

"SHERLOCK!" Hermione bolted up, throwing the blanket off of her friends. "Oh, Thank God you're alive. You're _alive_."

She wobbled over, excitement pumping throughout her body. Hugging him, she let out a long breath of relief, relishing in the embrace. Everything's alright now…

"Mate," Ron said hesitantly, looking at the slowly accumulating crimson liquid on the floor. The latter's tattered robe was black, so he couldn't pinpoint any specific injuries; his tired mind got the better of him. "Why're you dripping red? Are you…are you peeing blood? I completely understand; hell, I'd pee too if I saw Hermione's face so suddenly."

"He's bleeding, Ron," Harry responded quickly and rose to look for bandages; Sherlock was still playing with Hermione's puffy hair idly.

The girl gasped and stepped back, "I'm so sorry! Did I hurt you? Are you -" with a single look at her hand, drenched in blood, she fainted.

"Dropped like a stone," Ron commented while helping Harry look for a bandage and disinfectants. "Sherlock, you okay, mate?"

"I'm okay," he said, grunting while bending down to carry his fallen ally to one of the beds. "I'll be fine after I get the bandages."

And they believed him.

OOOO

Professor McGonagall had dismissed a disgruntled Madam Pomfrey outside of the infirmary hurriedly. She had to talk to the students; walking speedily back, she opened the door silently and froze.

Sherlock Holmes was amongst the students, who were sleeping in the beds. They had moved the beds to be side-by-side, and drawn the curtains so that there would be no separation; Harry was in the middle, out cold beside Hermione and Ron. Anyhow, Sherlock was fetching the blanket that was left abandoned on the couch; he draped it over the three sleeping figures.

"Sorry, Mycroft," she heard him whisper as he stared longingly at the friends.

Then, the boy got bandages and a bottle of anti-biotic that sat on the table beside Ron's head. The professor watched painstakingly as he bit his lips to undress. He took off his undershirt, exposing wounds that had otherwise been covered by the linen. There was a large gash running along his back; it was red with irritation from the robe, and there wasn't a moment it didn't stop gushing with blood. A large part of skin from his left arm was missing.

He opened the bottle and sloshed it onto his injured shoulder, grunting as he did. She could hear the sizzling sounds, and clenched her fists tighter. Ideas ran wild in her mind: should she keep watching or help the student? There were certainly pros and cons to each action. If she kept watch, she would probably be able to uncover what happened inside of the bloody room. Her heart tightened as she watched him slowly wrap linen around the wound.

She walked in, watching Sherlock closely, who didn't take his eyes off of wrapping his arm to see her, "Hello, Professor McGonagall."

"Mr. Holmes," she nodded curtly, staring at his arm; she raised a questioning eyebrow.

The child didn't say anything, continuing to wrap his arm. When he secured it, he moved on to dousing his back with the liquid. She strode over to his side and took the bottle from him, "I will."

She poured it quickly over the gash, and wrapped it tightly and securely in the bandage, "Where were you?"

There was silence, "I followed the troll after it smashed a hole in the wall."

"Why?" she asked. "Everyone was worried about you."

"I was curious," he stated. "Hogwarts is said to be one of the most secure schools, which I never doubted. How did a troll get in?"

She could do nothing but reward him with silence.

"Thank you, Professor," the boy said, and left.

OOOO

Washing up was a pain.

He washed his hair as he usually would, but the body wash took considerably longer. Nonetheless, it was accomplished. He hadn't slept for three days, and though he usually can go for about five, he collapsed into his usually empty bed. Sleeping was no problem that night.

"I heard you were injured from the troll," he was told. "Is that true?"

"No," he replied, shrugging. "I wasn't even there with them."

"Oh, well then," John snorted. "That was totally inaccurate."

During classes, Sherlock started going to all of his classes (except History of Magic), whether it was with Gryffindor or not. He developed a pretty stable relationship with the trio after the troll event. Mycroft didn't visit him at all to chastise him for being 'too close' to anyone, so he kept at it. That didn't mean he went looking for them; watching from the sides was good enough.

OOOO

Harry thought the sudden appearance of Sherlock was strange; he was pretty sure no one else was in the room. He didn't particularly mind, though. His friend was back to Hogwarts safely, and that was all he cared about.

He and Hermione could tell that the curly-haired boy valued his privacy and liked to be left. If anything, every time Harry thought he was closer to him, the boy would whisk through his fingers. Ron had wanted to apologize every passing day ("The guilt is eating my insides, mate," he said, eyeing Sherlock. "He's standing right there, and if you would just _let go of me_ I could say sorry!"), but he had already said sorry for five days in a row.

Anyhow, Ron and Hermione seemed to have made it a game to see who could spot Sherlock first throughout the day. Naturally, Harry joined in after getting the gist of the game. Now, he would always look around while talking to someone in the hall just to get the first glance. Throughout the week, he had been found his elusive friend first three times, Hermione four times (imagine the amount of time she put into finding him), and Ron once (who puts effort into finding him, but can't see him). Since they're usually together, if one of them sees him, they yell 'First'. When they're not together, they have to record the time of when they spotted him, and as you can see, it's quite an intense game.

October became November, the weather changing with it. The days were colder, and the sun his behind thick clouds. Harry's first Quidditch match was approaching, so the practices were frequent. He didn't get to hang out with the two as much, and was glad to see them, as well as Sherlock, watching him from the bleachers.

Weeks passed uneventfully. Professor McGonagall was as stern as ever and didn't show favoritism to him, despite her short and sweet show of affection when he woke up from the hospital bed. She was concerned for their well-being. Ron was a bit disgruntled with Sherlock's disappearance, but was quickly put to rest by the professor's words.

"The reason you slept with warmth was because of that young man," she snapped. "Now, if you are all rejuvenated, get to your house."

With that, she turned and left without a second glance. Ron was completely oblivious to what she had said, "Sleep with warmth? What does that mean?"

Hermione blushed pink, stroking the blanket before turning to face Ron, "Sleep with warmth, Ron. It means that you slept with a healthy body heat despite the cold."

"I know what it means!" he retaliated quickly, red to his ears.

Harry sighed, thanking his elusive friend silently, "Then why'd you ask what it means? Anyway, McGonagall was just saying that Sherlock gave us this blanket when we fell asleep."

"So what, I could've gotten a blanket and slept on my own. Giving people blankets doesn't make you a saint," Ron said, confusion written on his face.

"Ron, you idiot, we were asleep already. That means that Sherlock put this blanket over us, implying that _he cares about us_," Hermione cut in, speaking slowly whilst looking at the red-head as if he was terminally ill. "Get it? Professor McGonagall's saying that he didn't _abandon _us."

"_Oh_," he said, nodding as if he had just solved all of the world's problems. "Well, I never said he abandoned us! I always knew he was a good mate."

Harry snorted, remembering his friend's face twisted with a pout, along with a childish frown, "_Right_."

The red-head protests rang throughout the halls as they walked to the Gryffindor Tower.

OOOO

The day of the Quidditch game snuck up behind Hermione, which made her feel guilty. Her affection was placed solely on Sherlock, and only strengthened the more he disappeared. She wanted to see him more and more, but made sure not to be a bother; she even fixed her need to correct every mistake that others made in order to look more open and less like a perfectionist.

Anyhow, she, Ron, and Sherlock were on their way to the bleachers to see Harry play. Excitement bubbled inside of her heart, and was glad to see Ron opening up to Sherlock as well.

"I'm so excited to see Harry play!" Ron said, practically skipping.

Sherlock was more reserved, but his soft smile ghosted past his facial features, "As am I, but I also look forward to seeing you fly."

Ron stopped skipping and said gravely, "I can't. I'm not suit for Quidditch; I'm not a natural like Harry."

The latter raised a delicate eyebrow, "Nobody said you had to be a natural, Ron. Practice will reward you; it would be grave mistake if you don't even try."

The kindle in his heart was lit, and he was a jumpy fireball again, "Thanks, mate!"

Hermione laughed and chattered away with her friends all the way to the bleachers, her hand occasionally touching the curly-haired boy's hand as they made their way past other students. It was happy; the calm before the storm.

OOOO

Sherlock was careful with his language, not encouraging the boy too much; however, his slight push gave a completely wrong impression. The red-head was the light through a dark tunnel, his fiery passion regarding Quidditch was contagious. Soon, Hermione joined in their small talk, making it a conversation.

Her smile made him feel at home; it was safe and happy. Despite his dark retorts, even he could call it an attraction. Mycroft didn't make him feel safe: he made him alert. It was all thanks to his brother that he could fully function alone.

Anyhow, they had taken the front seats to watch Harry play.

How?

There were three giggling girls sitting in the best seats. He had heard snippets of their conversation, and it was simple to deduce that they had no interest in Quidditch. Ron was disheartened by the fact that he couldn't see Harry and cheer as hard as he planned to, so he planned his attack accordingly.

"Don't worry," Sherlock told the two, who seemed crestfallen. "I'll get us some seats.

Hermione looked at him curiously, "How?"

"I know three girls that will definitely give us some seats. Wait here."

Walking closer to the girls, he put on his best female-killing smile. They were around his age, so it would work perfectly. Their conversation ranged from attractive males (or 'hot boys', whatever you prefer) to a Muggle make-up brand called Sephora.

Intentionally tripping in front of the posse leader, a girl with piercing green eyes and long locks of chocolate-brown hair, he put his plan to action. Behold, the Dominating Male.

"Oh, sorry," he said, brushing himself off while putting on his smile. "Are you alright?"

The girl smiled, showing off glistening white teeth, "I'm fine. Are you okay?"

He inserted another smile, beginning to initiate part two of his plan, "Yeah, thanks. I'm Sherlock Holmes, you?"

As planned, the other two became attentive as well; they leaned towards him in interest. The leader placed a lock of her hair behind her ear, showing off silver earrings, "Irene Adler."

Another girl with severely curled hair (that bounced at her every movement) and a tan complexion stuck her hand out for a handshake, leaning in more than necessary towards him, "Sally Donovan."

Instead, he took her hand and brushed his lips over it, "Pleasure to meet you."

She took back her hand, covering her pink face with it, and giggled. The last girl was more hesitant, not because she was suspicious, but because she was attracted as well (he doesn't mean to sound self-centered, but it was quite painfully obvious); her face was pink from his affection to Sally. She stuck out her hand, moving strands of auburn hair out of her face with her other hand, "Molly Hooper."

He took it and did the same, intentionally breathing on her hand for extra measure. Seduction means catching the latter's attention, so extra was good. He saw fire light in Irene Adler's eyes as he turned towards her.

"Well now, I feel left out," she stated with a suggestive smile.

He played along and knelt down to one knee in front of her, "We can't have that, can we?"

With a laugh, she stuck out her hand and he pressed his lips firmly onto it, looking up at her. When it was withdrawn, Sherlock knew he had won when the leader flipped her hair. "Where're you heading?"

"I just wanted a good seat to watch the game," he said, standing up. "Well, it was a pleasure."

Just as he turned to leave, he heard exactly what he wanted. "Wait, you want a seat? Well, I've got three."

He turned, feigning surprise, "What do you mean?"

The three girls were already getting up to leave, "The sky's getting dark, so it'll probably rain. We're going in; you can have the seats."

As expected, Irene Adler was about to leave first, but somehow tripped on a flat surface (How? The world may never know).

"Ah!" she screamed as she fell into his chest. "That's so embarrassing!"

'Okay,' Sherlock thought to himself. 'Maybe there is such a thing as too much in seduction.'

"You okay?" he asked, hugging her tight. "Did you sprain your ankle?"

Her face was tight with fake pain (but it would definitely trick anyone else), "Yeah, I think I did."

He smiled and lifted her off the ground as if she was a princess; he made sure to show no signs of her weight by not grunting. Speaking as naturally as he could, "I'll carry you, then," he turned to look at Sally Donovan, who was looking at them in jealousy. "Should we go to Madam Pomfrey?"

The girl snapped her head up to him in surprise, "Oh, no. That woman woud make too much of a fuss. Let's just go to the Slytherin common room."

He nodded, smiling in her direction, "For the cunning. It suits you well."

A blush tinted her face, as she laughed, "Well, come on!"

Irene Adler had latched herself around his neck, becoming comfortable in the embrace; she had her head rested against his chest. While walking back indoors, he winked in Ron's direction when he passed them by. He heard Ron whisper, "Brilliant, mate!"

OOOO

"Pure-blood," said Molly Hooper in front of the closed door: it opened.

He carried Irene Adler to the girl's dorm, but stopped there, "Can I carry you to your bed, or do I have to leave you here?"

Sherlock had to tighten his grip around her as she started laughing, "You can go in; nobody's going to know, silly."

Sally Donovan opened the door, eyeing the leader carefully as she led them to her bed. Carefully, he placed the girl onto her bed. Feigning concern, he stayed beside the bed and said, "Should I stay?"

Irene Adler was playing with his hair and giggled, "It's okay; you can go enjoy your Quidditch game."

'I could definitely use her charm for more things,' he thought to himself. 'Indeed, I could use this little group. I just have to gain some popularity to back-up my act, and stop Malfoy's bothersome offensives against Hermione…and Harry...and Ron."

Before leaving, he looked back and winked at them, "See you later?"

They giggled, covering their mouths, "Sure."

OOOO

Hermione could feel herself getting jealous at Sherlock's act. Sure, she blushed a bit (a lot) when he sent that wink towards them…and realized just how amazing and gorgeous he was…

"But, why seduction?" she asked Ron furiously as he was absorbed in the genius of it all.

"Now, now, Hermione," he said, leaning back in the seat with a smile. "That mate's just a bit too genius for you, ain't he. I mean, really! Sherlock's charm gets the girls, alright!"

Her rant was interrupted when the curly-haired boy came and sat heavily down on a seat beside Ron. Suddenly, he blinked in realization and asked Ron to move a seat over.

"Why?" he asked, moving over anyway. "What's with that awfully pink umbrella?"

"They gave me an umbrella since it would rain," she heard him sigh.

"Oh, well that was _brilliant_!" Ron laughed. "They were like moths towards a flame; completely infatuated with you!"

Hermione puffed out her chest a bit, it was considerably smaller than that other girl's, "Really though, seduction, of all tactics?"

She was happy to see Sherlock shrug it off as though it was nothing, "I got the seats."

She let the subject drop as Quidditch started and cheered loudly along with Ron when she caught sight of Harry. Standing up, she clapped and shouted, "Go Harry!" along with the rest. The curly-haired boy beside her stood up politely and clapped.

OOOO

It was the start of the game, and Harry's stomach was a tight knot. Since it was Gryffindor versus Slytherin, he felt as though all of the attention was directed to him (which he knew wasn't true, but his stomach seemed to think so). It was all normal, as he had trained with Wood, until things started to become violent. People began whamming into him on purpose, and he could hear the angry yells from the crowd. Soon, he started to lose control of his broom.

It was spinning and slowly levitating higher and away from the game; he couldn't do anything. His heart was thumping loudly against his eardrums as he yelled for help; he didn't know what to do. Lee, the commentator, was starting to realize Harry's predicament.

"Oh, there's Harry Potter!" he yelled into the mike. "But there's a problem…Professor! His broom is jinxed! Oh no- he's spinning out of control! Someone, help him!"

Suddenly, the spinning was intensified. He was holding on for dear life, hoping that someone would come to get him. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Fred and George speedily approaching him on their brooms. They reached out for his hand.

"Come on, mate!" they yelled in unison. "Trust us!"

And he did, so he reached out; however, the broom suddenly jerked in another direction, kicking him off of it. There were screams.

OOOO

Sherlock saw everything. His blood boiled, and his heart was torn.

Jim Moriarty.

That sick murderer was smiling at him, watching in glee as Harry Potter fell. Ron and Hermione were screaming, but all he could do was watch in hatred. He could run and get the culprits; Moriarty and the traitor Quirrell were the ones jinxing the broom. Sherlock had read his lips while the man was speedily performing magic. Snape had been performing an anti-jinx, focusing his eyes onto Harry when he was on the broom.

It killed him to know that he was so close to catching the bastard; he was standing only a few seats away from Hermione. The hatred gnawed at his heart, urging him to kill.

Kill the murderer.

However, Hermione and Ron's eyes were glued onto the falling figure of Harry Potter. With one last look at the bastard, filled with all of the hate he had kept inside for all those years, he stood on top of the ledge (the drop was approximately twenty meters away from the ground, mind you) for a better perspective.

He fixed his eyes onto the quickly approaching Harry Potter, dangerously close to the spectator stand; suddenly, Sherlock jumped off of the ledge and shoved Hermione out of the way as quickly as he could. He heard a gasp escaping her lips as she stumbled away, but it was soon a yelp from Harry as he fell on top of someone.

"Sherlock!" he yelled, scrambling off of him. "Are you okay?!"

Sherlock stayed lying down, a bit dizzy from the impact, but with reason nonetheless. "Harry, hug me."

Harry stopped and looked at him as if he was crazy, "I hit you too hard, didn't I?"

He hissed, losing his front, "Harry Potter, do you want to win this game, or not!"

The latter was completely confused, but he answered anyway, "Well, yeah, I suppose."

"Then reach behind my back, and act as though you're helping me up," Sherlock said.

There were surprised students suddenly crowding in on Harry, so he did as he was told out of instinct; no one heard their short little exchange.

"Are you okay?!" he yelled as loudly as he could, so that everyone could hear. "Let me help you up!"

He rushed over and reached behind the boy's back; his hand was met with a sudden metal ball. He grabbed it, and finished with helping the latter off the floor. Looking into his clenched hand, he saw a gold whizzing ball vibrating crazily in it.

He lifted it up into the air, and cheers replaced the concern.

"POTTER'S GOT THE SNITCH!" yelled Lee. "GRYFFINDOR WINS 170 TO 60!"

OOOO

Sherlock looked around wildly for Moriarty amongst the crowd, but he was gone. In no mood to celebrate, he left quietly as Harry joined his friends, hugging them whilst jumping up and down.

He saw Mycroft on the side as he left, so he spit out angrily, "I saw him. I saw Moriarty. That _bastard_, I saw him, Mycroft, but I couldn't kill him. Why couldn't I kill him? I don't know why! _Why am I like this_?"

His older brother sighed and brought a hand to his shoulder, "It seems as though our efforts have been to no use. Moriarty has found you."


	6. Chapter 6

**Façade**

By _Cold_

**Disclaimer-** This is a Harry Potter and BBC Sherlock crossover. Just in case I get penalized for not mentioning this: Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling and BBC Sherlock is owned by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat!

**Author's Note-** The horrors of school…Anyhow, sorry for the late update. Thanks for reading!

**Feel free to review! It helps me a lot!**

OOOO

**Chapter Six**

Mycroft's words echoed inside of Sherlock's mind. Moriarty has _found _him? Was that what protocol has been for this whole time: to stay hidden from said Moriarty?

Then, all this time…

"To hide from Moriarty," Sherlock frowned grimly. "It was inevitable, wasn't it, being found. Those who hide will be found, either by the pursuer or Death."

His brother looked at him darkly, "Indeed."

"Well, it won't matter soon," he said promptly, waving his hand away. "I'll kill him when the time should reveal itself to me."

"Nothing ever reveals itself to you."

"True; I'll find the time, then."

"You can't do it alone."

"Of course I can, dear brother, not that I will; I have found a potential candidate for times like these: one with unwavering loyalty."

OOOO

Christmas was coming. One cold December morning, a foot of snow blanketed the ground; nobody could wait until it was time for the holiday, and the cheerful atmosphere was a great plus.

Fred and George were (already) in trouble for dumping snow on Professor Quirrell. The lake was frozen; many couples carved their names into the ice with twigs. Several owls had to battle through the icy storms in order to deliver letters from parents, in which Hagrid insisted on taking care of them before their departure.

The corridors and classrooms were wintry and bitter; the closed windows rattled from the strong winds outside. Professor Snape's classes were especially freezing, as it was located down in the dungeons. Draco Malfoy's taunts were far nastier than before the Quidditch game; he could not seem to digest that the Slytherins lost to the Gryffindors. Bullying Harry about his deceased family was all he did that week.

"Pity, Potter," the blonde drawled with a snicker. "You'll have to stay here because your family _doesn't want you_. I understand completely; nobody would _ever_ want to be your parent."

It was indeed true that Harry was not going back to Privet Drive, but he did not feel sorry. In reality, even that was an understatement: this would probably be the most amazing Christmases ever. Ron and the twins weren't going home either, since their parents were going to Romania for Charlie (imagine how broken the house would be if they were home alone!). Hermione was going, which dampened the mood, but when Sherlock said that he would be leaving as well, there was plenty of grumbling ("But you're the life of us!" Ron said indignantly). Hermione wasn't that upset, since she knew that: a) Nobody would lay a finger on him. And b) She would not miss _anything_ of much importance (and yes, everything Sherlock did was important).

Everybody was busy; Ron and Harry were helping Hagrid set-up large Christmas trees in the while Hermione stood beside Professor McGonagall.

"Ah, Hagrid, a little more right and – Perfect!" Hermione cried happily, excited with how smoothly the decorations were going.

Beside her, Professor McGonagall was ordering the boys, "To the far corner, please – oh dear, Hagrid, help them carry that massive tree; they're turning red to the face."

Sherlock was watching from the shadows with John Watson, who was stifling laughter as the red-head tripped on his robes, banging his head into the professor's breasts.

"MR. WEASLEY," she bellowed, slightly pink to the face. "Do be careful!"

"S-sorry, Professor," he said, rushing back to the other two.

They left, slipping into an unoccupied room near the library.

OOOO

"There's only one more day 'til break," John said, cracking a smile. "Are you staying?"

"No, I'll be going home," he said quickly. "Now listen quickly, John, for I have planned out the end of this petty game thoroughly. Harry's group will be approaching the library in search for information based on Nicholas Flamel. Do not worry, for they will not find information, but only for now. Sirius Black will send Harry a gift: an invisibility cloak. Using this, Harry will go into the Forbidden Section of the Library in search of Nicholas Flamel's files, but his curiosity will be his downfall. He will open books, whatever kind it may be, for it is a library, forbidden or not. I need you to sneak into the Library and plant this," Sherlock handed him a black book that was coated with dust. The letters were faded gold, and he had an urge to open it. "Do not open this book; it is our bomb. When Harry opens this book, and he will because I enchanted it to be opened by curious readers, it will scream. Alarmed, Harry will most likely run without thinking; anywhere away from the noise is safe. He will get lost. Then, the finale will begin."

"How do you know?" John questioned, tilting his head to the side. "Like, how are you so _sure_? And what finale? How do you know all of this?"

Sherlock shushed him, "Quiet your questions, idiot-"

"Why're so mean to me? You're nice to Harry!"

"Because I trust you! Now shut up and listen to the answers of your past three questions; we're running out of time. I'm sure because idiots that rush into trouble, such as Harry, are predictable; I've decoded his mindset already, which I will tell you later, for time is of the essence. The finale is my part, so you need not worry your petty little mind over that. I know all of this because I have been shadowing Harry's movement for -"

"Oh my God, you're a stalker?"

"No, you _idiot_! Harry Potter is a walking time bomb; danger follows his footsteps. I am his guardian, as Severus Snape is as well -"

"And how do you know that? Professor Snape seems too evil to be a 'guardian' -"

"I'm going to lower your IQ by a million if you keep interrupting me. It's so bloody obvious! One teacher _despises _the Chosen One and chooses not to hide it; that implies that he either works under an opposing force whose cause is threatened by his existence or he has an unfinished quarrel with the boy's dead parents. The years in which they attended Hogwarts coincide, so the second theory is more likely -"

"How do you _know _this?"

"You've made a short discussion into an entire conversation. Hurry up and do your part! And before you go," Sherlock paused as his face obtained a crooked grin, "I have my sources, namely a relative who _is _the Ministry of Magic."

Then he left.

OOOO

John was on his way to the library; his heart was dancing in his chest, and his stomach was making butterflies that only seemed to multiply (so…butterfly babies?).

He cast a disillusionment charm on himself in order to get into the Forbidden Section without catching much attention; he slipped past the librarians standing near his goal. Looking around, he didn't know where to place the book, and it was hard to fight the urge to open the book (thanks to Sherlock).

"Why am I even doing this for him?" he asked himself, placing the book idly on a lone desk near the bookcase.

A voice in his head replied, "Because you trust him."

Scoffing, he thought, "He trusts _me_."

His own words abruptly ended his questions. We trust _each other_.

"That's what friends are for," he thought as he slipped out of the Library with a suddenly light heart.

OOOO

Sherlock rushed to the secret door that led to Dumbledore's office and stopped to look around. When the coast was clear, he whispered the password.

"Lemon drops."

The wall opened up, revealing a staircase to the office. Before the hole shut, he crept up the stairs and placed a note that he had expertly replicated in Severus Snape's handwriting. He knew that this little trick would be discovered, but it wouldn't be traced back to him (he even made sure to put no finger prints on it for safety precautions). He could duplicate Snape's signature as well, but that would only be if he _really _needed it; writing notes to impersonate people was a skill he had used since youth (only when he needed Mycroft's parental permission for anything). The note read the following:

_You're wrong._

_Harry Potter has an Invisibility Cloak._

_He'll be in the Forbidden Section of the Library._

_There will be a screaming book, which he'll open._

_Then, he'll run away into a mirror that shows Desire._

_Ron Weasley will try, but he cannot stop Harry Potter._

_Mrs. Norris will stop them from delving deeper, but only once._

_He will look for the mirror again._

_Addiction is near._

_Danger is near._

_P.S. That won't help; you know it won't._

_P.S.S. Yes, I'm on your side._

_P.S.S.S. Quirrell works under Voldemort._

_P.S.S.S.S. You're stupid._

_P.S.S.S.S.S. Salutations._

Smirking, Sherlock sped out.

OOOO

Dumbledore was out for a refill of lemon drops; they had mysteriously disappeared. With two more boxes (for back-up), he entered his office. Walking up the steps with the two large boxes, he nearly missed the note left at the top of the stairs. Heaving, he dropped the boxes next to his desk and went to pick up the note.

He nearly had a hard attack at how accurately the writer knew his thought processes. At first, he thought it was Severus who wrote the note, but the answer was written on the first line. Then, he read the contents of it intently, not letting go of any details.

The P.S.'s were really worth his time, despite the shock he suffered through because of them. It went along the lines of the following:

Well, if I know that he'll leave, I can just tell him not to…

_P.S. That won't help; you know it won't._

Of course, how could I forget; he's of James' blood! But, how can I trust this source? The person even imitated Severus' handwriting. Is he even on my side?

_P.S.S. Yes, I'm on your side._

Well, this is certainly unnerving; the accuracy of this note…

_P.S.S.S. Quirrell works under Voldemort._

What? Of course not! How could such a sweet child -

_P.S.S.S.S. You're stupid._

How aggressive! Not even a greeting in a note; that's natural courtesy. Youngsters these days…

_P.S.S.S.S.S. Salutations._

As the note said, he did in fact get a warning from Filch regarding an 'evil source that even Mrs. Norris could not detect'.

Now, if only he could find who this person was…

OOOO

"Want to play chess, Harry?" asked Ron, panic welling up in fear of his answer.

"No."

"Then, how about we go down to Hagrid's? Or maybe hang out with Sherlock? That lad's been drifting away from us…"

"…No, you can go."

His stomach dropped at the response, "But, Harry, I _really _don't think you should go back to that place."

"You sound like Hermione," he snapped. "I'll just get one more look."

"Harry, it's really danger -"

And even though his friend nodded, he knew that the mirror was on his mind; the mere thought of Harry being _addicted _to such a dangerous item such as that…it made him shiver. There was a fleeting thought that told him, "I should tell Dumbledore." But in fear of losing his friend, he lied to himself.

"It's okay," he repeated to himself as the night approached. "I trust Harry. He said he's only going to check out the mirror on more time, so…"

OOOO

"Wait, but if Harry's not going to find anything about Nicholas Flamel, why did you plant the book?" John asked Sherlock as he followed his friend around.

Silence followed.

"You," his voice trailed off. "You're hiding something, aren't you? You needed to get Harry Potter out of the Forbidden Section to look for something of your own, didn't you?"

Then, there was a sigh from his friend, "You know me well; yes, I needed him out of there."

"Why? What would take him long enough to give you enough time to get what you need?" John pressed forward, locking his eyes onto Sherlock's figure. "And I know you don't sleep at night, so that means you read it recently. What book were you reading this whole morning?"

"It wasn't a book," he said, urging his friend to exercise his skills of deduction.

"But if not a book…what does the Forbidden Section hold that you would want? A file?"

His companion clapped, "Yes! It seems you're not as stupid as you seem."

"But then, what did you get him infatuated to? He seemed so out of it for the last two days, and Ron Weasley was showing obvious concern for him."

A look of regret passed through his face, and he could see the way he had to cough lightly to speak, "Something terrible."

John kept pushing, "What?"

"A mirror."

"A mirror?"

"Yes, a mirror. A cursed mirror; I thought it would be alright to just show him his parents for a few days before it was shipped away."

John thought to himself for a few minutes before patting him on the back, "I see now. It was originally for your own good, but when you heard of that mirror, you pitied Harry. And I don't care."

Sherlock ripped his eyes off of the floor, "What?"

Smiling, he said, "I said that I don't care."

Sherlock huffed angrily, "I know that! But _why_?"

"Who am I to care about the great Harry Potter? He doesn't even know me, so whether I care or not shouldn't affect him. No, Sherlock, I don't care about that lad. I care about you. And I'm wondering, _what were you looking for that night_?"

John had his hopes up, but wasn't as disappointed with the answer he got; in fact, he was touched at most. In all honesty, he wondered if Sherlock was human because of his seemingly lack of _caring. _It filled his heart with content knowing that he was wrong, but what hurt him more was the fact that his friend had a burden that required a mask.

"I can't."

Helplessly, he watched Sherlock readjust his façade.

OOOO

Like all the other nights, Dumbledore traveled through the corridors, and like any other night, he hoped that the letter was wrong. He hoped that Harry would not be there, infatuated with the Mirror of Erised. Alas, he was.

Regretfully, he sighed and entered the room and explained to the young boy, starting with giving partial credit to the writer of the note, "I don't need a cloak to become invisible."

When Harry asked what he desired, he answered with a lie, "I see myself holding a pair of thick, woolen socks."

After watching Harry head off, he was left to his musings. What was his desire? Why, it was…

OOOO

Uneventful weeks passed by. John followed Sherlock around every; shadowing him as he shadowed Harry Potter. It was fun, though.

They watched from behind the trees how the trio got chastised for being out in the _Forbidden Forest _(insert a dramatic gasp here). They watched as Harry was isolated from his own house. They were always watching (wow, that sounds misleading).

In fact, they were even there when Harry Potter openly said that he suspected Professor Snape for trying to steal the Sorcerer's Stone!

John secretly agreed, but was proven wrong with Sherlock's long analysis of his character and whatnot. In the end, he ended up supporting his friend's "truth". That night, he and Sherlock went past the three-headed beast (named Fluffy, apparently) and eased past the large chessboard. The next test was a riddle, which was 'boring' to Sherlock.

Truth be told, it was quite fun watching his friend swish through everything so easily. Then, there was one room with potions; separation followed.

OOOO

"Oh, shush," Sherlock said idly. "This is easy."

He pointed at a round, purple potion on a shelf, and signaled John to go get it.

"If you drink this, you go through that purple fire unharmed," he explained as John eyed the bottle quizzically. "Then, we get to our destination."

"But it's only enough for me! What about you?" John asked, opening the bottle anyway.

"By God, John, of course there's another one. Just drink it and go," he pointed towards the purple fire while picking out the black bottle. "This one is mine."

"Oh, alright," he replied simply.

He drank the potion, and his stomach went cold. Shuddering, he eyed Sherlock as he drank his.

"See you on the other side," John said as he stepped into the purple flames.

Sherlock watched with pity as his friend disappeared into the flames. With a sigh, he walked into the black flames.

OOOO

He looked around for Sherlock, but he wasn't there.

"Sherlock?" he called. "We're back to the broom place! You chose the wrong one!"

There was no answer, and his comrade didn't come. He trusted his friend enough to know that he didn't abandon him.

The answer dawned him, and he tried to get back. But he couldn't. Suddenly, Hermione Granger appeared beside him.

She cried out in surprise as she ran into him, "Oh!"

"Why're you here?" he asked in pure curiosity.

The girl, too shocked to answer, just rushed past him and grabbed a broom. He followed. Asking questions as they went, Hermione answered without a break for breath. Understanding her plan, he sped ahead.

'I'm coming back for you, you fool,' he thought to himself. 'Fool. Kind fool.'

OOOO

Sherlock hid behind the mirror as the bastard Quirrell soon entered the room with a chilly voice following him.

_Someone is here_, it said.

His blood ran cold, but his plan went into action the moment Harry soon appeared; the attention was taken from him to the new arrival.

"_Quirrell?!_" Harry cried in shock. "How…how could you?"

He listened intently as the traitor went in depth with how everything worked. In the end, it was just as Sherlock had deduced; the fun was lost the moment he won.

'Well, it was fun while it lasted.'

Crouched behind the mirror, he began memorizing everything he heard Quirrell say (including the hissing voice, which was Voldemort). Then, when Harry was forced to look into the mirror, he heard him lie.

It went downfall after that. Harry tried to run and Quirrell, under the control of Voldemort, tried to chase him. Naturally, he was affected by the lightning bolt mark and went through pain every time he tried to touch the boy.

Then, when Harry fainted, Sherlock revealed himself right when Quirrell had his head turned, and pushed the tall mirror on top of him. It cracked, and Quirrell died by the impact.

He knew that Albus Dumbledore was on his way here, so he Apparated, leaving the fainted boy in possession with the Sorcerer's Stone. Things would sort themselves out.

OOOO

That was how Sherlock's first year ended.

The second year came and went, with just as much trouble. He and John had gotten closer than ever; the boy still kept in touch with the trio. It was fun.

Then, the third year came, and everything seemed to be falling apart. He had forgotten about Moriarty's existence during the second year, but the madman appeared that year.

And he had to protect John.


	7. Chapter 7

**Façade**

By _Cold_

**Disclaimer-** This is a Harry Potter and BBC Sherlock crossover. Just in case I get penalized for not mentioning this: Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling and BBC Sherlock is owned by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat!

**Author's Note-** I want to have a moment of silence in memory of my best friend, Nico the Grasshopper; Nico the Grasshopper has proudly lived in my household for two weeks, until he suddenly disappeared into the wilderness. I wish you luck in surviving the coming winter, Nico. AND ALSO I Google Translate'd that message, MisunderstoodSociopath; I will fulfill your wishes! Thanks for reading!

**Feel free to review! It helps me a lot!**

OOOO

**Chapter Seven**

"You're not neutral," Mycroft stated, staring at the younger.

"Neither are you," Sherlock retorted, lying comfortably on a plush couch.

"But you're_ different_," his brother sighed, exasperated. "You're more _special_. Nobody cares if I'm neutral or not, but you have the whole world watching."

"It's just one man."

"If it was just a man, Sherlock, I would not mind. But Moriarty is a mad man that has enough power to destroy a country and get away with it; he's watching you."

"I know."

OOOO

Harry's body ached from dragging his trunk around, but anger pushed him forward.

That woman got what she deserved. She deserved to get blown up into a Muggle balloon and float away into space. Maybe 'Aunt' Marge will get hit by a plane and deflate, if she's lucky. He won't say he's sorry, because he's not; that rotten pig of a woman deserved it.

It was dark, and panic replaced his anger; nonetheless, he was getting away from that house.

"Taking out his wand, he panted, "_Lumos_."

Harry saw the outline of something large and monstrous (it looked like a hound with large eyes, but he won't say anything more because it scared him far too much), but it was soon forgotten as a large bus appeared with a bang (literally). The words 'The Knight Bus' were written in gold.

A teenager (presumably eighteen or nineteen) that went by the name of Stan Shunpike opened the doors to the large bus and began speaking.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this evening."

Harry stumbled over, dragging his trunk.

"Woss that on your 'ead?" the boy asked, eyes narrowing to get a closer look.

"Nothing," he said quickly, patting his hair down on his forehead. "So, you say this bus goes anywhere?"

The boy persisted, "Woss your name?"

Thinking of the first name he could think of, he said, "Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock Holmes? _The _Sherlock Holmes? The mastermind-"

"I'm joking, sorry," he interjected. "Neville Longbottom."

The conductor looked disappointed, "Figured. Anyhow, yes, it goes anywhere you want."

"How much for London?"

OOOO

"I'm leaving," the curly-haired boy said.

A chuckle resounded throughout the house, "When are you ever staying?"

"Never," he replied, shutting the front door. "I've got places to go. Things to see."

"Harry Potter is staying at the Leaky Cauldron," Mycroft called. "You've got school shopping to do in Diagon Alley."

"Sounds fun."

OOOO

Sherlock navigated through the crowd, keeping a low profile. He's not sure _how_, but he became known for being a mastermind. But the thing was, he never openly stated any of his observations. The only person who could have known was either Mycroft or…

"Moriarty," he hissed.

He caught sight of the trio sitting on a bench speaking animatedly, so he strode towards them (also because Hermione was there, looking around). Suddenly, a hand appeared in front of him, stopping him from his destination. Turning, he was face-to-face with a man that had slick black hair and mischievous eyes.

"Sherlock," he sang, waving playfully. "You missed my twenty-first birthday."

"What does that matter?" he said coolly. "It's just any other birthday."

The man laughed, clapping in glee as well.

"You haven't lost your charm," the man said, patting his shoulder as he laughed. "Oh, isn't he magnificent; the great Sherlock Holmes playing a game with a lowly mad man like Jim Moriarty!"

He eyed the man dangerously, "Shut up, Moriarty."

OOOO

Moriarty _loved _Sherlock; he was the perfect playmate. He had always been bored, but the boy never failed to amuse him; Sherlock's intelligence matched his own and it excited him every time. It twisted his heart and made him want to _crush _him.

That was why the game was so fun; he would watch the boy dance as he threatened the _dull_ beings around him. Yes, it was so _entertaining_ to watch the boy lose is neutrality. They were on different sides, and it made his heart boil. Together, they could cause so much _destruction_ and have so much fun doing it! Together, they could do the most magnificent crimes and laugh.

Moriarty was so changeable, but to be fair to himself, it was his only flaw. He wanted to crush Sherlock, but he also wanted to be on the same side; it's like a teenage drama.

"Are you picking sides, Sherlock?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. "Are you on the side of the _angels_?"

The boy glared, and it made him shudder in glee, "No."

He understood the depth of his answer, but it was so _vague_; so unlike the Sherlock he knew, but it excited him, because finally, he had his own puzzle to solve: Which side was Sherlock on?

There were so many 'sides'; it wasn't only good and bad (that was stupid). There were so _many_, and it made him want to wring Sherlock's throat for such a confusing answer. A boring man would answer if he had asked, "What side are you on, then?"

But not Sherlock; no, Sherlock was a genius and did things in a genius way.

"Then what side are you on?" he persisted.

"I'm not on a side," the latter said promptly.

"Yes you are!" he cried. "You're on a side, but you're not telling me because you want me to suffer."

"There's you're answer, Moriarty," his playmate spat, turning to leave. "Suffer."

He watched the boy leave, and it made him want to kill him. Not because Sherlock left (well, maybe he wanted to spend a bit more quality time, but that's beside the point), but because that was not the answer.

There was no side that wanted Moriarty to suffer; he was not in sight of any side; he was _invisible_. Then what?

OOOO

"Oh, is that Sherlock?" Hermione cried, her heart beating in anticipation. "Yes it is!"

She touched up her hair and waved towards the curly-haired boy's direction, "Sherlock!"

He looked gorgeous; he had a purple V-neck with jeans and sneakers. It was very Muggle-like, but it made him endearing; waving, he strode over with a small smile.

"_Oh_, Hermione's got the hots for Sherlock," Ron sang as he wiggled his eyebrow towards the boy. "He's even got a purple shirt; gets the ladies all the time."

"Shut up, Ron," Harry said before whispering. "_The purple shirt is a sacred art that only certain males can wear_."

Ron's face was red with laughter while he lowered his voice, "The purple shirt of sex."

They roared in laughter as her face became hot.

"Shut _up_," she hissed. "And I don't fancy him, if that's what you're intimating."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock asked as he sat beside her. "Intimate what?"

Harry chuckled, "Nothing."

Ron added with a smirk, "Nice shirt, mate."

"I didn't get my school supplies yet," Sherlock shrugged.

OOOO

Hermione bought a ginger cat that threatened the existence of Scabbers, but Sherlock didn't particularly mind. Following the trio, they went to the Leaky Cauldron. Ron Weasley's father was sitting in the bar, reading the _Daily Prophet_.

A picture of a criminal named Sirius Black was seen in the paper.

He recalled Mycroft saying something about him.

"Sirius Black," he heard him say, "is Harry Potter's godfather."

"Then he is not a criminal," he replied promptly.

Ron's whole family entered the bar soon, and he managed to catch the youngest Weasley's attention. She seemed quite taken by him (after all, he was wearing Muggle clothing).

She whispered her salutations to Harry, who saved her life last year at Hogwarts, and shuffled towards Sherlock.

"Um," she whispered with a red face. "I'm Ginny Weasley."

Sherlock's lips cracked into a smile, "Sherlock Holmes."

Another blush blossomed throughout her features, so he completed his deductions. If he pressed the right buttons, he could push her into doing things to his advantage; it was, after all, for his final plan. The beginning of the last act started as of now.

While the trio was talking to the others, he spent time with Ginny. They were sitting next to each other, watching the commotion.

"So, you're going to be a second year now?" he asked (though he knew the answer).

"Yes," she said, looking down at the floor.

"Wow, second year," he hummed, feigning as though he were deep in thought. "Nervous?"

Her laughter sounded like wind chimes, "Yes, a bit."

He made a sound of agreement while nodding, and they shared a comfortable silence. Moriarty plagued his mind in the quiet, and exhaustion took over. Sherlock heard a surprised squeak from the girl, but ignored it.

OOOO

Ginny was interested in the Sherlock; for one, he was wearing _Muggle _clothing. She had always thought of purple as a female color, but she was proven wrong the moment she caught sight of the boy. He had rich black hair and the strangest eyes that changed color. He was mildly built, but he wasn't lanky or awkward: he was _graceful_.

And he was natural. Sherlock was a very comfortable individual; he wasn't overbearing. When he fell asleep on her shoulder, she was playing with his full curls and dwelling in his smell.

'He's strange,' she thought. 'But he's nice…and handsome.'

OOOO

Hermione caught sight of Sherlock asleep on Ginny's shoulder, and jealousy sprouted in her stomach as she observed how comfortable they looked. She fought the urge to break them apart; jealousy was unsightly.

Alas, she stared longingly at the couple until Mrs. Weasley called them over for dinner. She heard the mother say something that made her want to take Sherlock away from there.

"Oh, isn't he a dear," Mrs. Weasley crooned while running her hand through his hair. "He must have been exhausted; yes, who wouldn't be after a day of shopping."

She saw Sherlock wake up, and her heart beat picked up again when he held her gaze.

OOOO

Harry had woken up in the middle of the night and planned to go downstairs for some water, but arguing voices stopped him. Pausing to listen, he leaned against the door. He couldn't get much, for Sherlock happened to pass by and ask, "You aren't sleepy, Harry?"

Guilt welled up inside of him, "I just wanted some water, but they're arguing…"

"And you were curious," Sherlock completed the sentence for him. "You can go back to bed, I'll get you water."

"I can do it," he insisted, feeling bad for making his friend do such simple chores for him.

The moonlight touched Sherlock's strangely pale features, and he felt impulse to ask, "What are _you_ doing here, Sherlock?"

There was silence, so Harry stood up from his kneeled position and took a step towards his friend. Curiosity took the best of him as he persisted, "Why're you out of your room?"

"Water," the boy replied promptly, taking a weary step back. "I'll get your water, too, Harry."

Harry paused and watched the tired figure, "Alright."

OOOO

Sherlock was pale, for he woke to the face of Moriarty smiling. When he saw the man's face, he nearly gasped but put on an aloof expression, gazing at his face.

"It's night," he stated.

"You only sleep once every three or four days anyway," the mad man chuckled.

"Why're you here?" he asked, sitting up from his bed. "You're not stalking me, are you?"

"The answer," Moriarty interjected, eyes black with insanity. "The answer to your statement is that there is no side, is there? You're not on a side, are you?"

"What are you getting at?" he asked.

The man was practically skipping with joy, "You're _alone_! You don't have anyone to join your side, so it's not a side. You're too genius for anyone to _understand_ you. You look like you're on the side of the angels, but you aren't. It's all an act, isn't it? Being near those idiots is a façade you put up."

"Are you implying that you are _not_ alone?"

"No, no," the man sang. "I _was _alone, but now I'm not because I know that I have someone similar to myself."

Sherlock stared blankly, "Me."

"Yes," the man nodded, eyes gleaming with happiness. "You _are _me! You know that, don't you? We're both alone, and we both deal with humans because they are our _shields_."

Then Moriarty left him to ponder. He knew that he was alone; it was obvious. It scared him to the core because the more he thought of the man's parting words, the more it made sense.

'No,' he thought to himself. 'I save people. I helped Harry Potter.'

Another voice in his head retorted, 'You didn't help anyone; it was all for personal gain. You are Moriarty.'

'Then what was everything I was working for?' he thought angrily. 'It was to escape Moriarty! It was all for that.'

The second voice clashed with his thoughts again, 'No, no. You're just playing the game; you can't escape yourself.'

'What game?' he thought. 'What game makes Moriarty so infatuated with me?'

'The game of Dance: that is the game. One man cannot dance alone; neither can he perfectly dance with another woman. A man can only dance with himself.'

'But I'm not like Moriarty. I'm nothing like him; I don't kill people.'

'How can you be so sure? Your power of deduction can save people, but you just watch; that's it. You watch your chess pieces and throw them away when they lose their value. That is the Dance: one man escapes and the other chases. One cannot exist without the other.'

Sherlock needed an escape; he needed a way to get out of this 'Dance', so he left his room that suddenly felt enclosed. He initially planned on getting some fresh air at the front door, but hearing voices, he stopped and listened.

"Sirius Black is after Harry," Mr. Weasley's voice said. "And we _have_ to tell him. He's thirteen! Hiding the truth won't help anything."

"The poor boy doesn't have to know," Mrs. Weasley retorted. "He'll be safe with Dumbledore!"

"That man escaped Azkaban," the husband stated. "That was supposedly impossible! He could get into Hogwarts; he's capable."

Then, hearing familiar footsteps, he darted back into his room. Adrenaline ran through his blood.

'This is what I need,' he thought. 'A distraction.'

'To keep you entertained?' his mind asked. "You just proved you're Moriarty.'

'Shut up. It would be more interesting if Harry didn't know what was happening; it would be harder to protect him.'

'You're playing the game willingly,' his mind observed. 'You haven't changed; as self-centered as ever.'

'I know what happens if I don't play. He'll die.'

'There is your answer. You are not Moriarty.'

'But then how are we playing the Dance?'

'When a man is disillusioned, he has the power to make a cat look like an alligator.'

Before Harry could hear anything, he interjected and played the game.

OOOO

Sherlock didn't sleep that night; nor did he eat breakfast. There were too many thoughts plaguing his mind and eating slowed down his mind.

"A slim boy like you needs to eat!" Mrs. Weasley cried, for the fourth time. "Eat!"

Annoyance crept up behind him and he nearly blew up right in front of her, but he played it safe with whatever patience he had left for the woman, "I'm not hungry, Mrs. Weasley."

"But you _must _eat!" she said stubbornly. "I won't allow you to leave."

Ron interjected (and thank goodness, he wanted to strangle the woman at this point), "Sherlock doesn't eat, Mum; don't worry."

Then, Hermione piped in, "He's just not a morning person."

Harry added, "Yeah, Mrs. Weasley, his stomach isn't as large as ours."

Grudgingly, she left him alone and fawned over the twins ("You eat like pigs!").

Then, they went to the train and left; he watched the faint figure of the Mr. and Mrs. Weasley disappear before settling into a comfortable position in the seat. There was chatter about Hogsmeade, but Harry couldn't go since the Dursley's, or 'Fudge' (whoever that was), didn't sign his permission slip.

OOOO

After only a couple hours, the train slowed to a stop, but they couldn't have reached Hogwarts _that _soon. The lights shut off as well, and knowing something was wrong, Sherlock left the compartment before the trio and the sleeping teacher (by the name of Professor Lupin) could notice him.

There was a cloaked figure with bony fingers, and his heart froze; it was a dementor. It floated around aimlessly, whispers and fearful whimpers filled the train. He heard a thud and worried voices from the compartment he just left; Harry fainted.

Sherlock didn't know why, but he heard the voices of Hermione, Ron, Neville, and an unfamiliar voice (presumably the sleeping professor), but not Harry's. Nonetheless, the dementor caught sight of him and abruptly stopped terrorizing other compartments; it drifted towards him and stopped.

He felt someone watching him (probably Professor Lupin, because who else would be out when there is a dementor?), but he didn't let that bother him. What bothered the boy was that _why _the dementor stopped in front of him. Was it because of the change in atmosphere? Did a new life force confuse their raid?

He saw its skeletal hand slip out of its cloak and he stared at it curiously; there was a letter in it. His heart sank when he saw a familiar M signature on it.

"Moriarty," he whispered as he took a closer look.

He took the letter from its clutches and let it pass him by; Lupin could deal with it.

OOOO

Lupin saw the boy's proximity with the dementor, and yet he seemed unfazed by its strange behavior. Dementors don't deliver _letters_; that's absolutely unheard of! He saw him take the letter from him and stare at the red seal gravely: What kind of letter was it?

It shocked him even more when the dementor just passed the child by without a second glance; in fact, he saw the student sidestep out of the way for it to pass. Dementors feed on people's happiness: How was the boy emotionally unscathed?

What did he do with his emotions? Did he guard them?

Lupin had to focus on the matter at hand and forced the dementor out of the train. After spending some time with a shaken Harry (he fed him chocolate), he glanced at the boy who had the letter; nobody seemed to notice his disappearance.

OOOO

Sherlock opened the letter carefully, breaking the seal, and read:

_Let's play a strange game where you'll get hurt; I want to take a break from our usual game because I think we should get closer in a more direct fashion. What better way than to play a game where we won't hurt bystanders?_

He read it over before slipping it into his robes and looking out the window in relief, completely aware of the curious pair of eyes trained on him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Façade**

By _Cold_

**Disclaimer-** This is a Harry Potter and BBC Sherlock crossover. Just in case I get penalized for not mentioning this: Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling and BBC Sherlock is owned by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat!

**Author's Note-** I'm trying to make up the chapter I couldn't do two weeks ago, but it's not going smoothly. hotxhotguy, you wouldn't dare kill Nico… I raised him with too much love! Anyway, I wanted to say my thanks to the reviewers because I can never say thank you enough for all the motivation you give me. Thanks for reading!

**Feel free to review! It helps me a lot!**

OOOO

**Chapter Eight**

The opening consisted of Sorting the new students and introducing Professor Lupin as the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher and Hagrid as the new Care of Magical Creatures teacher. For Sherlock, it was uneventful for he never ate at feasts; while everyone in Ravenclaw was eating, he left and wandered the school.

While seemingly drifting around, he caught sight of paw prints of dirt and blood that trailed the stone floor. Out of his curiosity, he followed it to a closet; opening the closet, he saw a large black dog slumped against the wall. It snarled at his approach, in which he ignored completely.

He remembered rumors that Mycroft had told him.

"Sirius Black is rumored to be an Animagus," his brother told him. "Dementors can't sense animal souls as well as human ones, so it would make sense that he escaped by transforming and slipping past."

"You know this, yet you haven't told anyone," he observed.

There was a pause, "I'm putting my trust in your past statement."

"Smart man," Sherlock laughed.

'I guess I'll have to trust you on this one, Mycroft,' he thought to himself.

Why else would there be a black dog in Hogwarts? The dog would have to _sneak in_; it all made sense! Why would there be a dog in that area, anyway?

Now, how could Sherlock make himself a trusted subordinate of the 'criminal'? The answer was simple: be an animal lover and speak to it like a fool.

Internally sighing, he began, "Come here, boy. Come here; it's okay!"

Black growled, showing off his white teeth.

"Oh, are you a girl? I'm sorry," he crooned, sitting on the floor and spreading his arms wide. "Wait, no, you're a boy! Oh, stop confusing me, you!"

The dog (somehow) looked at him as if he was an idiot; he had the '_You're practically talking to yourself but I won't say anything because I'm not supposed to.' _The boy wanted to die of embarrassment, but continued speaking anyway because that was part of his (strange) plan.

"You look thin," Sherlock said, taking out some of the chicken legs he had taken just in case he got hungry (which rarely happened). "Have some of these. They're absolutely delectable."

He placed them in front of the dog and gazed at him while he ate hungrily; the timing needed to be absolutely perfect for this to work. He began, "Hey, you know, Sirius Black escaped Azkaban? I heard he's a murderer."

Sherlock knew he was stepping on thin ice the moment the dog flinched and started eating at a slower pace, so he added quickly, "Well, I don't think he's a murderer. I don't know why, I just have a feeling. Do you know where I'm going with this?"

He continued eating with a rigid form.

"He could have been framed, for all we know. You know, that still happens? Some really bad people frame the innocent! It's outrageous. Anyhow, I think- no, I _know _that Sirius Black, someone related to Harry Potter's father, would _never _trade in family for someone as terrible as He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named."

The dog's ears perked up slightly at that comment and sat up as it finished its meal; its eyes were boring into his own.

"You know, Harry's pretty fearless; he calls He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named by his _actual _name. That's admirable, you know; I'm a coward, but I guess you could tell already. I'm not really close with Harry, but I think he must've had magnificent parents. That's another gut feeling, though."

Sherlock was running out of compliments (he doesn't really compliment people that much, and if he does, it's usually cliché), but luckily, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall. Sirius dashed away, leaving him to quickly pick up the bones and walk as naturally as possible away from the scene.

OOOO

Lupin caught sight of the dementor boy disappear during the feast; he didn't even touch his food! He wanted to eat more, of course, but curiosity got the better of him; leaving his seat casually, he tailed the boy.

'He walks fast,' the professor thought as he wandered around.

Almost missing the jumbles of words, Lupin slowed to a stop and strained his ears.

"…he's a murderer," the voice said.

The words muffled after that, resulting in him running through the halls with his footsteps echoing behind him; alas, the strings of words stopped the moment he was within a comfortable proximity of listening. The professor abandoned his eavesdropping tactic and dashed past the corner towards the retreating tapping of feet.

To his luck, he saw a familiar curly-haired boy walking with his hands tucked under his armpits.

"Hello," he called, waving awkwardly. "Erm…"

The boy turned around, "Hello, Professor."

Lupin had never actually thought that he would meet the boy, so he didn't think that far ahead ('Idiot,' he chastised himself).

"You are?" he asked, nonchalantly looking at the impressive stone walls.

There was a pause, "Sherlock Holmes, sir."

The name sounded quite familiar; wasn't that on the paper? Now, if only he could remember that article, he wouldn't look (and feel) like such a fool; alas, he remarked, "That sounds familiar."

A puzzled look flashed through the boy's features, "What?"

The professor racked through his mind, trying to disprove his student's probable judgment (of him being an idiot) with a bit of _Daily Prophet _updates, "You're the 'genius in disguise'! I'd say it was quite brave of you to allow an article of your whole life."

The boy's eyes hardened and his shoulders stiffened, "Excuse me?"

He looked at him quizzically, cocking his head to the side out of habit, "You're whole life is on the paper, or so it says."

"Give me details, sir," Sherlock said impatiently. "What was written on the paper?"

He swallowed slowly and eyed him cautiously, "I don't remember much, but your parents were mentioned."

He nearly jumped out of his robes when he heard the crackling of bones coming from the boy. Was he cracking his knuckles or breaking his arm?

"And you are certain?"

"Absolutely."

There was a pause, and then a short cough, "Who wrote that article?"

Lupin had to close his eyes for a moment before answering, "Erm…Moriarty, I believe. I don't quite recall his first name, though."

Sherlock obviously had to regain his poise, for he stood motionlessly for a moment before nodding curtly, "It was a pleasure meeting you, Professor."

OOOO

"Sherlock's gone," Hermione remarked with a slight tint of disappointment. "Have you seen him?"

Ron was too busy stuffing his face to properly respond ("Boys," she sighed.) and Harry managed to drop his glasses in his soup; he was grumbling while rubbing the lenses with his robe.

"A man needs his peace," the red head said, rolling his eyes. "Hermione and her rampant hormones."

"Since when were you interested in Sherlock anyway?" Harry asked, trying on his glasses. "I'd say you have a crush."

She could feel her face heat up, "I do not! I'm just worried; he barely eats!"

"You sound like my mum," Ron said as his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What are you, an agent? Have you come to spy on our man Sherlock?"

Hermione stood up as she brushed off non-existent dust off of her robe, "Well, I'm going to go look for him because I'm _worried _about our dear friend, unlike you lot who's too busy teasing an innocent girl such as myself."

"The food won't wait for you," Ron said as he climbed out of his as well. "You sure you're done? Dessert hasn't even come yet."

Harry followed their examples, "Well, where do you suspect he'd be?"

She shrugged as the boys trailed after her.

"Was that a shrug from _Hermione_?" Harry whispered.

"I believe so, my friend," Ron giggled. "This is what love does to you: it makes you do crazy things."

"I can hear you!" she hissed at them. "You're absolutely terrible at keeping quiet!"

OOOO

They wandered aimlessly; their chatter was the only noise that sounded the halls. It wasn't until a faint coppery scent wafted into his nose did their endless conversation come to a stop. At first, he ignored it by convincing himself that it was his imagination; what other explanation did he have? Neither Ron nor Hermione seemed to recognize the smell, so he dismissed it.

"I smell something weird," Ron said promptly, rubbing his stomach. "It's kind of faint, though. What about you?"

"I have a bit of a cold," Hermione said, sniffling. "But I can smell a bit of something. Copper, maybe?"

Harry shrugged and said hopefully, "Maybe Malfoy ran into a wall and had a nosebleed."

Ron sighed wishfully, "Maybe Snape followed Malfoy's example and got a double nosebleed."

"Or maybe Sherlock's hand is hurt," Hermione said slowly, looking over Harry's shoulder. "And it's bleeding blood."

"That's a pretty strange delusion," the red head snorted. "After all, you fancy him."

"James," Harry said abruptly. "Harry James Potter, just in case you were looking for baby names."

"Would you shut up?" Hermione hissed, coughing awkwardly into her sleeve. "Sherlock's really bleeding; he's standing right there with a bloody hand!"

The boys turned and saw a curly haired boy facing a wall with a glare fixed on his face. Harry was silently contemplating on whether or not he should go and help him or wait until that icy glare disappeared, but Hermione fearlessly tapped over to him. Ron was muttering quick words that sounded suspiciously like "What did I say about the hormones".

"Sherlock!" she called. "I couldn't find you at the feast."

It was almost as if the twisted features never existed; it disappeared the moment he turned to face her. That mechanical face made Harry's blood freeze, but nobody else seemed to notice. He let it pass.

'It's probably just my imagination,' he thought, shaking his head as he followed Ron to greet Sherlock.

OOOO

"I overheard from the Golden Trio," John said, idly flipping through the pages of a book he had to read for homework, "Your hand was bleeding."

"Tedious," Sherlock droned, writing messily on a scroll. "Why do I have to write my so-called future based on tea leaves?"

"Hey," the latter retorted. "I have to write one, too."

"But I'm _superior_."

"You're a jerk."

"I'm a _superior _jerk."

"Still a jerk."

"Whatever. Anyhow, just write about your death in the most dramatic ways possible."

"Why?"

"Because that's what that woman wants! She likes _drama_; she wants a reason to make things sound extravagant when they're stupid."

"You mean Professor Trelawney?"

Sherlock snorted and continued writing, "Here, read mine." He shoved his paper in John's face, who sighed and scanned it over:

_With much observation of the terrible outside world, it has come to my attention that the end of my life…_

_I saw, with great shock, that the tea leaves showed me my inevitable fate: death by werewolves. I would be shred to pieces…_

"I never thought of you as one for drama," John said as he chuckled into his fist. "I only read, what, twenty words from your opening? And maybe a sentence and a half from your body paragraph."

"And?"

"Your handwriting sucks."

"Shut up; handwriting isn't a criterion of genius. Only idiots that have nothing to do spend time on improving their handwriting."

"What are you implying?"

"That you're an idiot."

"You're such an annoying prick. Anyway, bleeding hand? What happened?" John asked as he began writing his death based on tea leaves as well. "Splinter?"

"Chicken bones. I crushed them by accident," Sherlock said, showing his bandaged hand with blood seeping through.

"Explain. How does one break _bones _by accident?" John said nonchalantly (but still peering to look at his friend's face). "Did someone get you angry?"

"Yes," the latter replied, disinterest twisting his facial features. "And no, I will not answer your next question."

John asked anyway, "Who got you angry?"

"That's none of your business."

OOOO

Hermione stormed out of Divination: who needed to know about something without any _proof _when there were so many better classes? She would take any class other than that _infuriating _one! Professor Trelawney was a fraud; how could on see the future from soggy tea leaves? And how dare she say that she "didn't have the right aura" for Divination?!

"Fine!" she hissed. "I don't even _need _Divination; it's an unproductive class with nothing but fools in it!"

"I completely agree," said a voice behind her. "Absolute truth, what you're saying."

She whipped her head around and saw her crush, no, _friend _(she would never let Ron and Harry dictate her thoughts with their foolish ideas!) standing behind her; he wasn't towering over her (yet), but he definitely grew taller.

"Sherlock!" the girl squeaked as she self-consciously touched her hair. "Oh, um, yeah…I just need to blow off some steam."

"As do I," he said, scratching the back of his head. "I don't like Divination that much."

"Well," she said promptly. "I _despise _it! And the professor- she's the epitome of…rudeness!"

He chuckled at her outburst and patted her back, "You can do it; don't listen to what some toadstool of a woman told you."

And as soon as he came, he disappeared, leaving a disappointed but motivated Hermione to dwell in her thoughts alone, 'I guess that I _could _live with it. It's not that bad, after all.'

OOOO

Mycroft was visiting, and Sherlock burned all of the _Daily Prophets_ that he could find.

"Mycroft," he acknowledged with a nod as he set fire to the last paper. "You've heard."

There was a heavy, uneasy silence; it practically radiated off of the other Holmes, "It's alright. Not many people read it anyway."

"You know something that I don't," the younger stated after a few moments. "That's why you're showing signs apprehension."

"Sometimes," the older sighed. "Sometimes you observe too much."

"It is what differentiates me."

"It attracts danger."

Sherlock snorted, "Maybe I'm just attractive."

"Or maybe you attract danger."

"I prefer living on the edge anyway," the younger brother retorted. "Mundane does not fit in the same sentence with superiority."

"I'm sorry," his older brother whispered.

"I won't ask why," was the curt response coated with indifference. "I'm glad I haven't told you everything."


End file.
